


Curtain Rising

by tiger_in_the_flightdeck



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AAAAaaahhhHHHH!!, Acting, Actors, Adoption, Because She Counts, Because That's What They Are Putting On, Case Fic, Completed!!!, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Graphic Descriptions of Injuries, Hospitals, Hurt On A Case, I do not live in a world where John Watson would harm Sherlock Holmes, I have NOT watched S4, John Watson is a Good Doctor, John Watson is a Good Parent, John is a proud dad, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mystery, Rosie Is Part Of The Investigation, Self-Conscious Sherlock, Sherlock is a Good Parent, The Sound of Music References, Theatre, This is just a 60 thousand word love letter to the Holmes-Watson family they build together, Yes I Put The Pet As A Character, musical theatre
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:15:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 61,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25693402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_in_the_flightdeck/pseuds/tiger_in_the_flightdeck
Summary: A disgraced television star is the target of a series of death threats just after a theatre production’s adaptation of The Sound of Music is announced with her as the lead. The suspect list is a mile long and growing, Rosie Watson is in the spotlight, and Sherlock might be getting too fond of his time on stage to focus on the case. With opening night approaching, can he and John figure out who wants their client dead before her final curtain rises?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 103
Kudos: 141





	1. Enter Stage Right

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zevbaldwin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zevbaldwin/gifts).



> This fic was originally going to be about 10k words long. Then Rosie got involved. Once she got involved, the production became Sound of Music. And once I decided that, everything just clicked into place in my head, and before I knew it, I'd written a novel. It is completed, and I will be posting an update 3 times a week until it's all online.  
> I need to say, right up front, that I have NOT seen, nor do I have any plans of seeing, season four of Sherlock. I do not live in a world where John Watson would purposefully injure Sherlock Holmes. As such, I've left it intentionally unmentioned about where Rosie's mother is. The reader can use their imagination as to why she is not in the picture if they want. Just know that in this universe at least, there was never a moment when John had attacked Sherlock in anger. The thought of it frankly makes me sick, and I don't feel I could write a developing romance between them after that. Really, the only thing I'm taking from season four, is the existence of John's daughter, and that tiny clip at the end when Sherlock picks her up and goes "Look, it's Daddy!" with her while waving happily to John.  
> This is a mystery story, a combination of Whodunnit, Whydunnit, and Howdunnit. It was SO MUCH FUN for me to write. If you go through my works list, you'll see I haven't written a Sherlock fic in ages. This one, though? This was my favourite thing I've written. I had FUN with it. I loved playing with these characters. And I hope that I'll be able to bring them back again with the same sort of happiness in other works. I hadn't realised how much I'd missed them.  
> As always, this work wouldn't be possible without the support of Christyimnotred and Beltainefaerie. They were amazing with their encouragement, enthusiasm, reminders of how to spell the word Rhythm, and just being all around wonderful people.

“Mr Holmes, you have to help me. You’re the only one who I can turn to. The only one who can save my life.” 

So many cases over the years had begun with a dramatic entrance to 221b, or a desperate plea for assistance. The footprints of a gigantic hound, dates with ghosts, and that one woman who had presented them with a severed hand she had found in her garden which was later proven to be the salt preserved remains of a long missing sea captain; they all stood out as memorable to them. 

But when a woman let herself into the flat on a rainy Saturday morning with her bottle blonde hair clinging to her cheeks and the bright green fur on her midriff-baring coat standing out in clumps, neither John nor Sherlock had expected her appearance, let alone the announcement. Or the way that she put her hand to her throat with a strangled cry before collapsing to the carpet. 

Sherlock, who for all of his brilliance and skill at reading a crime scene at a glance and for whom the complex threads of a chemical component would dance at his command but had questionable experience with people at best, jumped to his feet while shouting “A murder, John!” Stepping over the body with little regard, he whisked his dressing gown around himself like a tango dancer’s skirt as he pranced about in delight. It had been a boring week so far, weather and a lingering case of the sniffles that had only recently passed keeping him cooped up indoors under John’s orders, and a hands-free murder was just the thing to perk him up. 

John, who had years of experience dealing with patients trying to scam pain medication prescriptions out of him and could read a person’s vitals at ten paces while explosives were being detonated in the distance, continued to placidly eat his breakfast. This new client would get to her point eventually, and his eggs were best while hot and runny. Stabbing into the yolk with the corner of a piece of buttery toast, John leaned to the side to glance down at her. 

She was heavily made up. Even her exposed abdomen had powder and contouring on it to make it look more toned. If she hadn’t been caught in the rain the way she had, the foundation cream around her eyes would have still concealed crows feet that must normally have been given an extra layer of disguise in public by the pair of enormous sunglasses which were hanging off the pinched end of her upturned nose. She had put a great deal of effort into looking at least fifteen years younger, and her wardrobe was a big component of it. It looked like she had stalked and skinned a Care Bear for her jacket and her jeans were studded with rhinestones and artfully torn to the point that they looked as if one plucked thread would unravel the entire outfit. 

“It’s no murder, Sherlock. It’s a textbook acting job,” he said around his mouthful of toast as he settled back to his plate. His sister used to do the same thing when they were children and she wanted to get out of anything from doing the laundry to paying for the damages from when she’d driven their grandfather’s mobility scooter through a hedge and into their neighbour’s duck pond when they were fourteen. 

On the floor, the woman clearly realised that she wasn’t getting the response she had expected and coughed delicately into her fist. “Oh my. I don’t know what happened. I just got so lightheaded. It must have been the run up the stairs.” Her voice was falsely timid, trying for a Betty Boop squeak as she hauled herself to her knees then to her feet where she tottered on five inch wedges which sparkled cheerfully. 

Pouting his disappointment that there hadn’t been a poisoning or even a case of anaphylactic shock by way of malicious peanut buttering sprawled out on their floor, Sherlock sat back across from John on his side of the desk and poked his slice of bacon around his plate. “Just once I’d like a corpse on the carpet,” he mumbled under his breath. 

“I know,” John reached over the clutter on the desk to pat Sherlock’s forearm with a sympathetic smile. “Maybe for your birthday.” He plucked up a napkin when he straightened back in his seat so he could wipe butter and toast crumbs off his mouth. “Now that you’ve got yourself calmed down a bit, maybe you can tell us why you’re here and what we can do for you Miss…?” 

The client adjusted her glasses back into place only to pull them off with surprise. “You mean you don’t know who I am?” 

Both men shared a glance. 

Shook their heads. 

Shrugged. 

“Sorry, we don’t. Should we?” 

When it looked like she was going to faint for real this time, the colour draining from her cheeks to leave peach toned splotches of blush powder that made her look like a mannequin, John stood up and beckoned for her to take the spare seat which he placed in front of the fire. Sherlock gathered the breakfast dishes and dropped them in the sink before returning from the kitchen with a glass of water. “I’ll ask Mrs Hudson to make some tea.” 

The offer was unnecessary however, because their landlady bustled in with a tray already in hand. “I heard the pitter patter of a client’s feet on the stairs and thought you’d like some refreshments. The little princess is watching that pig programme so I snuck a few iced biscuits onto the plate while she wasn’t looking.” She beamed, crossing the room to set the tray on the little trestle table that sat beside Sherlock’s chair before either of her tenants could react to the information that their client had come in without anyone’s knowledge. “Oh! Oh my goodness!” Her hands flew to her mouth and she bounced on her heels with childish delight when she got a proper look at the new arrival. “Oh, you’re Gloria Sunchild! I’m such a big fan of yours. I’ve watched every episode of Apple A Day, even the crossover episode with Blood On The Coastline when you went to help solve that murder in Devon. And when it turned out to be your twin? I thought I was going to have to use an inhaler, I was so shocked.” The words came out in such a rush that it was impossible to interrupt her even as Mrs Hudson gripped the woman’s hand, pumping it excitedly. “I never believed any of the scandal papers and the horrid things they said about you. Now Mrs Turner- she owns the flat next door, you know. Did you see her coming in? She would be green with envy if she knew you were sitting here right now. Her tenants are so sweet, but ever so dull, even if they keep strange hours sometimes and never have interesting guests except their nephew who visits once in a while. From  _ America  _ he is, and a musician and all- she thought that it was all true and  _ I. Told. Her _ that no respectable woman would ever do those sorts of things, least of all on a film set, even if it would bolster her career.” 

All of the colour that had flooded away came rushing back into the client’s face as she looked first to Sherlock then to John, the pleading plain on her face. “My, that’s so… Kind of you. I’ll be sure to leave you an autograph. But right now, I do so need to speak with these gentlemen.” The handshaking continued, her bangles clanging and chiming away. “Right now.” She gave a little tug. “ _ Privately _ .” A stronger one, until finally she wrenched her hand free. 

Seeing his opportunity, John swooped in and began steering Mrs Hudson across the room and toward the door. It was like trying to move a shipping tanker in a fast current and took all of his effort to keep them on their course. 

“Oh, of course. I understand. I’ll make Rosie some pancakes, that will keep her downstairs.” She stood, wavering, on her toes again to speak over John’s shoulder. “You feel free to pop downstairs on your way out, and I’ll make you up a plate to take home with you, dear. But right now, you tell the boys your problem. Whatever it is, they’ll sort it out in two shakes, mark my words.” 

The door closed a punctuation on her promise and John leaned on it, staring at Sherlock.  _ “What the hell was that?” _ he mouthed silently. 

_ “Breakdown?” _ Sherlock mouthed back while pouring the tea. 

He expertly spilled a few drops of milk into John’s cup and added the tiny pinch of sugar he had begun taking with his morning brew as an extra eye opener since Rosie had started waking up at 3:19 every night without fail to scream at invisible monsters whispering under her bed until she was allowed to climb under the covers with him. Sherlock suspected that she also kicked in her sleep, judging by the way John had taken to rubbing his ribs in the mornings and flinching away from the sound of her heels drumming on the floor. 

John accepted the cup with a smile of gratitude and sank into his chair with his pillow tucked behind his back. He groped around beside the cushion until he pulled out a handful of hair bows, nearly ten pounds in loose change, a scientifically accurate snarling plastic dinosaur, and his notepad with the pen tucked into the spiral. Turning to a fresh page, he put the change in his pocket and clicked the pen so he could take notes in his precise shorthand that, to Sherlock’s dismay, only he could decipher. “Apologies for our landlady’s enthusiasm Miss… Sunchild.” There was a barely imperceptible twitch to the corner of John’s mouth as he made his first note. “I take it that you’re an actress, then?” 

The client took her own cup and held it close to her face to breathe in its warmth. Her eyes darted between John and Sherlock before settling on John as the safer choice. “Please, call me Gloria.” She stretched out a hand and set it gently on John’s knee. “Yes, I’m an actress. I’ve been on the television for several years, but this summer I will be returning to every actor’s root. I’ll be making an appearance on the stage.” 

Glancing down at the hand, John tried to employ the methods Sherlock had demonstrated over the years to  _ observe  _ rather than simply see what was there. She wore several large bangles and wrapped bracelets around each wrist, but her fingers were bare save for a small ring on her right little finger in the form of a leaping rabbit. It was scuffed and one of the rabbit’s ears was bent forward like it had been caught on something. Her nails were chewed to the quick and the cuticles looked ragged. Tiny scars showed pink and new against the pale skin of each knuckle on her left hand. 

“And what brings you here today? You said that your life was in danger.” Sherlock took a loud slurp of his tea, earning a dirty look from John. His manners had been much improved since John and Rosie had moved back in, with an impressionable five-year-old in the flat. But, old habits die hard and sometimes came roaring to the surface with regards to forward women who thought that John Watson was someone who could be  _ touched  _ by just anyone. A few months earlier, John had sarcastically told him to just piss on his leg to mark his territory, which Sherlock had taken as permission to continue his possessive lurking, feeling smug when John had done nothing more than roll his eyes or shoot the occasional withering glance. 

Which was the closest they had ever come to any sort of mature conversation about their position in one another’s lives since the day they’d met. 

Not noticing the weighted meaning between those shared looks, Gloria set her cup down on the tray so she could dig through her handbag for her phone. It was gold-tone and covered in rhinestones and had a collection of charms dangling from it. “Auditions are still going for most of the other parts, Mr Holmes. But the day after the performance dates were announced with me as the star, I received this:” She tapped the password into the phone and played a recording. 

It was silent for a moment save for some distant breathing, then a mouth came near the microphone to snarl out its threat.  _ “You’re gonna die, Glory. Gonna die on that stage.” _

John whistled. “Pretty to the point, that. Any other threats?” 

She played several other messages that were all on the same theme, with the same voice. It was rough and distorted enough that it was impossible to say for certain if it was a man or a woman issuing the threats. “And these have been showing up around the theatre.” Gloria opened the photo gallery and handed the phone to John. He swiped through a few of the photos. Each one was of red paint scrawled on a wall, or floor, or door, insisting that Gloria was going to die. The final one was of her dressing room, which had been trashed. The mirrors were smeared with lipstick before being shattered, the drawers pulled out and contents thrown around the small room. 

“Have you contacted the police about this?” Sherlock had leaned over to look at the pictures, for the first time seeming interested in the tale. 

“They say it’s just someone on the crew trying to scare me. Well, it’s working, Mr Holmes. I’m scared. And not just for me. They’re trying to scare me off of this play. If that happens, it will put the entire production out of work. They need me. I’m the star of the play!” Tears welled up in her eyes but didn’t spill over her thick lashes. “I’ll pay any fee you ask. I just need to know. Who would be doing this to me?” 

“That’s what we’ll aim to find out, Miss Sunchild. Leave this with us, and we’ll sort everything out before opening night.” Sherlock returned the phone and began to tap his fingers lightly on the side of his jaw, obviously already deep in thought. 

John took that as his cue. He got contact information for the client and plugged her phone into his laptop so he could download the photos of the destruction and the recordings. After walking her downstairs and seeing her safely into her waiting car, John returned to start the research into the production company and their new client.

It was several hours later that he came back for air after being sucked into the deepest pits of celebrity fan sites and catty gossip forums.

“So, Gloria Sunchild is from Essex-”

“She’s done good work with the accent,” Sherlock interrupted then opened his mouth to accept the grape that Rosie was holding out for him. “Thank you, dear. Did she go to a performing arts school?”

“Not a school, but her profile page says she went to acting camps as a kid and when she prepared for roles she would shadow people to pick up quirks and accents that way.” John rolled his shoulder in a lopsided shrug. “Whether it’s true or not, I dunno, but after doing a couple of plays she got her first major role at twenty-two in a family sitcom. She was on that for six years, then went on to get the lead in Apple A Day.” His lip curled up off his teeth in a disgusted grimace. “A piece of sh- rubbish soap opera masquerading as a medical drama.” 

Sherlock turned his laugh into a discreet cough. Whether it was John’s hatred for medical programmes or his attempts at keeping his language clean that was funnier, he couldn’t say for certain. Rosie didn’t seem to notice one way or the other as she seemed far more interested in refusing to sit still while her hair was brushed and braided, and feeding Sherlock from her bowl of fruit and crackers. “Apple A Day? That sounds like a song that would be performed by puppets on a public service announcement.” 

“Infinitely worse. Check out this dreck.” John tucked his pen behind his ear and shifted so both he and Sherlock could see his laptop screen. 

The video buffered for a moment, then their client appeared in frame. Her hair was done up in a cascade of curls that fell from the back of her head under a surgical cap while dramatic music swelled. She was sharing a heated look with an orderly who was practically bursting out of the sleeves of his scrub shirt before the scene changed to show her running down a hall alongside a stretcher with a patient yelling for her husband. 

“She’s wearing heels!” John spat out through clenched teeth. 

Other cast members made appearances, but the trailer’s focus was mostly on Gloria’s character who seemed to spend most of her screen time brushing away tears and leaning wearily on walls while other doctors and nurses rushed around her. The trailer ended with a close up of her looking down at a chart in shock. 

“Our client plays the lead surgical doctor who is also apparently a paediatrician, an obstetrician, and an oncologist depending on the needs of the plot. Dr Honey Crisp-”

Sherlock let out a bark of laughter and nearly sprayed a mouthful of crackers before he gulped them down. “Honey Crisp? You can’t be serious. What, does she live with her Granny Smith?” 

“Yes,” John said, his voice utterly emotionless despite the agony in his expression. “She does. I’ll give the writers credit. They decided on a theme, and by god, they stuck to it. The whole main cast is like that. Nurse Cherry Cordial is the main love rival, with the orderly-” he winced. “Kale Sprout.” 

After his giggles subsided, Sherlock took a few deep breaths and snapped a hair tie around the end of Rosie’s mermaid braid. He boosted her higher onto his lap so she could nestle back against his chest with her head tucked under his chin, her current favourite post-snack resting spot. “So, aside from various fruit and veg associations having claims of defamation of character, do we have any possibilities for suspects?” 

Huffing out a sigh, John leaned back against the cushions and dragged his hand over his hair a few times. “Well, I suppose the entire medical community has cause. This show makes Casualty look like a documentary. But according to the gossip blogs, there’s been a lot of in-fighting on set. Rumour has it that she’s blackmailed about a dozen directors and actors from the show. That she has a history of arranging for them to be caught doing something unsavoury on set if they don’t go along with her proposed storylines or cast changes. And if they haven’t been doing anything wrong, she stages things. One actress had drugs planted in her dressing room, but the only fingerprints on it were Gloria’s. Then there’s her personal life. She’s been formally charged with drunken disorderly at least ten times, has assaulted wait staff at three different restaurants, and after a bit of digging I found a website forum with people telling anonymous horror stories of the way she treats off-camera crew. One person says she stabbed him with a pair of scissors for refusing to do her personal make up after a long day of filming, and it looks like she has a history of throwing her Maltipoo at production assistants.” 

Sherlock shook his head when Rosie put a cracker to his mouth. She craned her neck to give him a stern look until he took it with a smile. “All right, I think it would be easier to rule out people who wouldn’t be suspects at this rate. What do we know about the theatre production?” 

“That was easier to get info on. It’s an established production company which just opened a pretty big new theatre called The Riverview.” John switched tabs to bring up the company’s website. On the home page, a photo reel played, showing the stage crew arguing cheerfully over paint swatches, a group of children being led in a movement lesson, and an old actor in period dress gazing into the middle distance with a soft blue light illuminating his face. “They hold acting camps for kids, have a programme for at risk youth which is where a lot of their stage crew got their start, and their hiring policy is focused on diversity and inclusion. Remember that Black trans Romeo and Juliet last year? They put that on. And they have blind auditions for musicians. You know, padded floor, screens up, so they know they’re hiring based on skill not bias. Going by their awards list, it’s working a treat for them.” 

Sherlock made a thoughtful noise and leaned forward so he could click through the website pages. Rosie complained at being squished and twisted a little to make herself more comfortable. While her father and uncle had their attention on boring case research, she marched her dinosaur through the snack bowl so it could smash grapes underfoot while she sang happily about it. 

“I wonder how Miss Sunchild got a role with a company like that. She doesn’t seem to be their type. Given her history, it’s possible there’s a matter of blackmail involved.” Sherlock tapped his lips with his fingertips as he read through the cattle call listed for actors who could come to audition for the performance. “Sound of Music, hmm?” 

“I think we’re going to have to go there and poke around a bit, at the very least.” John shot Sherlock a glance. “Undercover, do you think?” 

“At the very least,” Sherlock repeatedly absently. The sound of the gears turning in his head was almost audible. He knew that John couldn’t act to save his life. Literally. His lack of acting ability had almost gotten them killed on several different occasions and had once led to him falling off of a horse. “We’ll have to figure out a reason for you to be there, though. I don’t imagine you know how to maintain theatre lights? Soundboards? Maybe you can work craft services.”

John levelled a flat stare at Sherlock.

“Right, well, something will come to me.”

“And I squash the grapes to make some jelly,” sang a soft, sweet voice, the beat counted out by plastic claws hitting the bottom of the bowl. 

Looking down at Rosie, Sherlock’s mouth stretched into a slow, proud smile. “Oh, that’s just perfect.” 

“And a squash, and a squish, and a- Huh? Why’s everyone staring at me?” 


	2. Stage Dads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosie wows her instructor at the theatre's junior acting camp, and is invited to audition for a part as one of the von Trapp children. John and Sherlock get settled into their undercover roles, and we start to meet some of the rest of the cast of characters.

“Now, we’re standing on cold snow! What do you think we’d do?”

The group of children gasped and some pretended to clomp around in snow boots while others hopped from foot to foot as if they were trying to get out of the slush that most city kids were familiar with. John beamed with pride when Rosie flopped onto her back to make a ‘snow angel’ on the stage floor then threw imaginary snowballs at one of the boys who had been irritating her all morning. 

The junior acting class was for children between the ages of four and seven, and John suspected that most of the parents were using it as a sort of daycare. Of the two dozen or so clumsy little performers in the group, only five of them turned every so often to wave to their parents sitting in the wings, and two of those were siblings. Whenever Rosie would shoot a look over to make sure he was watching her award-worthy dramatics, John would wave and shake his hands from side to side in silent applause. 

“Have we learned anything new?” Sherlock asked, stepping around one of the chairs to hand John a Starbucks cup that smelled like mint mocha. He sat down and added an extra packet of sweetener to his own drink before taking a sip. 

Blowing into the hole in the lid, John grinned. “Rosie’s got some serious chops. She can cry on cue, and hasn’t missed a mark. That crying thing isn’t going to bode well for us during her teenage years, I see it now.” 

“I meant about the potential suspects, John,” Sherlock smirked, but John could see that he was just as proud. 

John leaned back with his feet stretched out, his ankles crossed. He used his toes to discreetly gesture to different people. 

“Okay, we have Anna Trang. Aside from running the morning and afternoon kiddie classes, she’s our client’s understudy for the performance and as long as she doesn’t have to fill in, will be playing the eldest daughter. She’s been with the company for two years and seems to be happy with the supporting roles because it gives her time with her family.” He jerked his chin towards a little boy and his sister who were hopping around the stage pretending to be rabbits. “Outside of the company, she’s mostly done adverts and modelling with a few small parts in shows. One of them was a three episode stint on Apple A Day.” 

“So she has a history with Gloria.” 

Saluting with the cup, John hummed. “And might have been on the receiving end of one of her tantrums. But this is Britain.”

Sherlock nodded, knowing where John was going with that. “Every actor has worked with everyone else at one point in their career. Who else stands out?” 

“I haven’t managed to get his real name, but over behind the soundboard, the one with the stretched lobes and labret piercing? That’s Cosmos.” John held a hand up to stop Sherlock’s flood of ridicule before it spilled out. “I know, don’t shoot the messenger. He’s new here this year, and going by those boots and jeans, he comes from money. Check out the watch. It’s worth more than my car. He doesn’t need to be here. He’s doing it because this is what he enjoys. But he’s letting the others believe he’s one of the former street kids.”

“I’m impressed, John. You’ve really begun to get a handle on it.” 

The genuine approval in Sherlock’s voice brought a touch of colour to John’s cheeks. He ducked his head for a moment until it faded, even though he knew Sherlock couldn’t have missed it under the glare of the stage lights. “Lots of practice, I s’pose.” 

By the time the class was finished, John pointed out several other people who he’d gotten information on, but didn’t think were involved. Some of them were ruled out because of not being present at the time of the vandalism, or having no history with their client. 

“There’s still a few who haven’t shown up yet. The stage director hasn’t made an appearance, neither has the choreographer. But that might not happen until all the roles are cast. Are you signed up for the cattle call?” 

“Mmhm, it’s an open call, so we won’t be reading for specific roles. Just giving a monologue and singing a song so the casting director can get an idea of our talents. Or lack thereof.” Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his seat before taking a deep swallow of his coffee. 

When he had been in university he had been a card carrying member of the Drama Nerd set. When he wasn’t busy breaking into labs after hours to perform his own experiments, he was on stage. If life hadn’t taken him in other directions, everyone who had known him at that time were sure he’d be receiving awards for his performances and shooing fans away with a broom. 

But that had been almost twenty years ago. The only acting he got up to now was for cases and pretending he hadn’t eaten the last of John’s cinnamon raisin bagels despite having crumbs of it still on his chin. Being up on a stage in front of a casting director was worlds away from getting a suspect to believe he was someone else or giving John a wide-eyed expression of innocence. If he didn’t impress, they would have to come up with an entirely different plan for this case. 

“You’ll do fine,” John insisted, nudging Sherlock with his knee before straightening. Rosie was charging toward them with the class instructor in tow. 

“Daddy! Daddy, guess what! I’m gonna be an actor!” The girl launched herself at her father, knowing full well he would catch her. 

With a move perfected from long practice, John passed the cup off to Sherlock in time to sweep her up into the air then down onto his lap where he bounced her on his knee. “What’s this then?” 

“A famous actor!” 

John looked up to Anna Trang who laughed and pushed a heavy fall of black hair over her shoulder. “I wanted to discuss something with you, Mr Watson.” Even though John and Sherlock had been keeping themselves out of the public eye since Rosie’s birth, in an effort to stay undercover they hadn’t given his real title to try to hide in plain sight. John Watson was a common enough name that he didn’t have to use a fake one, while Sherlock had used his other names to sign up for the cattle call. Rosie understood that sometimes her father and uncle played pretend to help people and was excited that this time she got to play along with them. 

“I hope my lass hasn’t been any trouble.” For an added layer of disguise, John strengthened his childhood accent from Northumberland. Unlike Sherlock’s atrocious attempts at French, it came out smooth and brought to mind copper torcs, woad painted warriors, and other things which Sherlock was certain were anachronisms but couldn’t care less about in that moment. With just one sentence all traces of London vanished and Sherlock’s pupils dilated so fast he could feel it. 

“Oh, nothing of the sort. The opposite, really.” Anna snagged a folding chair and pulled it over to sit down across from John. “Now, I don’t know if you know that we’re putting on Sound of Music this season.” 

John’s brows shot up in surprise, as if it was the first he’d heard of it. 

“And there’s a role for a young girl in the play. She’s just about Rosie’s age. Seeing her today, I think it would be a good idea for her to audition properly for it. She remembers lines we’ve given her-”

“Great king, please release the princess so spring will return!” Rosie interrupted with the line she had been asked to memorise for the class performance. Her voice had a desperate, pleading tremor to it and her lip wobbled. 

Laughing, Anna reached out to bop her lightly on the end of her nose. “Well, you can see she can put real heart into it. I can’t promise she’ll get the role, but she has as good a chance as any of the kids the director is seeing. Better than some, actually, if I can be honest with you. And-” She hesitated, twisting her hands from side to side as she considered a delicate way to speak her mind. “Not to talk badly about some of the other parents who have come through here, but your Rosie seems happy to be on stage for herself, not just doing what you want of her.” 

John felt a flash of guilt at that. Rosie might have been enjoying herself, but it had been just as likely that she would hate every second of being in the theatre, and he and Sherlock had brought her as part of a case. 

It was the look of pure delight on her face that eased the guilt. “What do you say, Princess? Do you want to audition? You won’t be disappointed if someone else gets the part?”

Rosie shrugged with one shoulder, a habit she’d picked up from her father. “If someone else gets it, it means they was better than me, so they deserve it better.”

“Were better,” John corrected gently, stroking the hair back from her face which had come loose from her braids. “It means you’ll have to remember a lot of lines, and songs, and a lot of people will be counting on you to get things right.” 

“I know!” Rosie continued to bounce even though John had settled his leg. Her eyes were wide and she waved her hands near her face. “I’d have to pretend to be a whole ‘nother person, and always have to get to the right spot on the stage, and there will be lights and costumes and dances and lotsa lotsa people watching, and it will be brilliant!” 

The class instructor cleared her throat quietly. “It also pays quite well. It’s one of the reasons this company is getting more popular. The owners have been at the front of increasing wages for stage actors. Heh, it’s actually making them a little unpopular with other companies because actors have been signing here as often as they can.”

“They  _ pay  _ us?” Rosie nearly rocked off of John’s lap. She got a weekly allowance of five pounds for making her bed, cleaning her rabbit hutch, and putting all her toys away before a client arrived. The thought that someone would pay her for playing dress up and having fun was baffling to her young mind. “How much? Ten pounds?  _ Fifteen?” _

Anna giggled, clearly smitten with the girl. “A little more than that, sweetpea. We’ll discuss it with your father after auditioning, if you get the part.” Leaning in, she pressed a quick kiss to her cheek. “I’ll be rooting for you.” To John, she smiled. “If you stick around a couple hours, you can attend the cattle call. That’s just a name for when they bring all sorts of people in, instead of contacting agents for invites. It’s great, because it means that newcomers have a shot, rather than just established actors.” 

Her daughter squalled from the other side of the stage, her brother had stolen her juice box and squirted it at her. “Ah, that’s my cue. I’ll send over some songs for Rosie to practice so she can pick one for the audition if you decide it’s something you’re interested in.” Clapping her hands in front of her to get her son’s attention, she dashed across the stage where she lifted the other child into the air to wipe her face clean. 

“Either she’s a much better actress than the company gives her credit for, or she has nothing to do with all of this.” 

Sherlock pursed his lips, trying to find fault in the woman. The only thing he could see that raised a sliver of concern about her was the fact that she wore her wedding band on a chain around her neck instead of on her finger. That could easily be explained away by the slight weight gain she had put on after her children were born, and not wanting to spend money to have it resized. Which meant that she planned on losing the weight, or possibly thought she might gain more. After a few more minutes considering her, he gave a firm nod. “She’s uninvolved. We still need to stick close to her. She knows this world.” 

“You mean what she said about the owners being unpopular? Do you think someone’s trying to sabotage the company, not Gloria? It would be a pretty smart way to ruin things. Scare off the lead actress and the play falls apart. Backers pull out, the company loses face, and actors return to the other theatres, all the while they barely have to lift a finger or spend a pound.” John rubbed Rosie’s back as he spoke. She had missed her nap for the class and with the excitement of an audition looming, she was blinking slowly and tugging on her ear in a way John recognised as her starting to crash. “C’mere, you.” He boosted her up to rest against his chest with her head nestled into his shoulder. “Sleep a bit, then you can work on lines.”

Sherlock dug into his pocket to produce a small plush dog which was missing its tail and one ear, a result of overzealous teething when she’d been a baby. Rosie accepted it with her eyes closed and tucked it under her chin. “I’m very proud of you, Watson,” he told her, but she was already asleep and drooling on John’s shoulder. 

Draining his coffee, Sherlock tossed the empty cup into a recycling bin by the wall then clapped his hands against his thighs. “Well! If I’m going to make an impression, I’d best do my own rehearsing.” 

“And snooping around in the dressing rooms?” 

He stood and ran his fingers back through his hair. “And snooping around in the dressing rooms,” he agreed. “Promise I won’t get caught. Make sure to peel Watson’s apples for snack time. Her juice is in the bag.” With a dramatic flourish of his hand in the direction of the old nappy bag that was tucked under his chair, Sherlock vanished into the wings. 


	3. Kids And Animals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock looks for clues around the theatre, and Rosie has her audition.   
> All singing, all dancing! (Okay, with a little investigating)

The dressing rooms were in the basement of the theatre, tucked behind the special effects department’s supply room and beside the costume storage. Most of the rooms were little more than particle board cubicles that could easily be mistaken for public toilet stalls with an actor’s name scrawled on a strip of gaffer tape and were rarely used for productions with a lot of costume changes, but one room at the end of the row had been recently redone to be something more than a simple box. It had drywall and a door with a knob instead of just a latch. The smell of paint was fresh enough to tell him that it was done the same time Gloria had joined the company.

Sherlock produced his set of lock picks from an inner pocket and was about to select the right ones for the job when he saw that the door wasn’t entirely closed. He stopped himself from scowling with disappointment and nudged the door open. 

Gloria Sunchild’s dressing room wasn’t much larger than the others, but it was comfortable and the drywall muffled some of the noises from the outside. The broken mirror had been replaced with a larger one that was ringed with lightbulbs instead of the original lamp. Since the actors had their hair and makeup done in another portion of the theatre, there was no real need for the mirror. 

With an ear cocked for approaching footsteps, Sherlock ran his gloved fingers around the frame of the mirror and under the vanity. The underside had cobwebs and dust and the mirror was clean. Poking into the drawers showed him a collection of lipsticks, batteries, a notebook with most of the pages torn out, and a bundle of audio and USB cables held together with a rubber band. He turned on the torch on his phone, and shone it around the corners of the room. Near the ceiling there was a small hole in the drywall with a tear running a couple inches down from it. He zoomed in and snapped a photo of it so he could examine it without climbing onto the chair. In the opposite corner was a smoke detector with a blank light. The clothing rack held a handbag, several silk scarves, and another furry jacket, this one in neon blue with white tiger stripes. 

His search continued around and under the velour upholstered chair where he found plenty of dog fur, a small packet which had at one point held cocaine, and some glass shards that had been missed during the cleaning. The backs of each rear leg of the chair were scuffed an inch above the feet. Sherlock rubbed his fingertips over the scuffs. Even through his nitrile gloves he could feel that the edges were coarse. He took another photo before slipping his phone back into his pocket. He turned in a final slow circle to make sure he’d gathered all the useful information the room could provide. 

The other dressing rooms were all but bare inside. Each one had an empty rack for street clothes and a plain folding chair set against the wall. A small pound shop mirror was taped to the back of each door and an adjustable light was clamped to the clothing rack. Sherlock noted that none of the other rooms had smoke detectors or any holes in the walls. Anna’s room had pictures of her children and husband tacked up beside a calendar with acting camp dates circled. She had used themed stickers to indicate what each camp was doing at any given day. Sherlock was impressed with her messy organisation and told himself to ask her for a pack of the stickers. 

With the play still in the audition process, the costume department only consisted of bolts of material and basic sketches of outfits pinned to body forms. Props were carefully packed into trunks and labelled for use in the special effects department where Sherlock spoke with a pair of men who looked like an old wizard and his young apprentice about flash cartridges. He left with a few of them in his pocket and made his way back upstairs. 

“Oh, Mr Holmes!” 

He opened the door at the top of the steps to find their client stubbing out a cigarette against a wall. She waved smoke away from her face and adjusted her handbag. The bag rustled then barked in distress until a teddy bear appeared. It took a second glance for Sherlock to correct himself. It wasn’t a plush animal, but he still hesitated to call the creature a dog. 

“Good afternoon, Miss Sunchild,” he said absently, scratching her pet behind one fluffy ear. 

“Please, I thought we agreed you’d call me Gloria.” With a grin, she tucked a hand into the curve of his arm and steered him down the hall toward the stage. “Were you coming here to check on me? That’s so sweet of you.” 

Sherlock gave a little jiggle of his arm to see if he could dislodge her, but she was holding firm. “It’s part of the investigation. We thought it would be best to come here undercover to be able to get behind the scenes. So I’m not Mr Holmes. Call me Scott, a humble actor.” 

Gloria clapped her free hand against her wrist. “That’s fantastic! I never would have thought about it. Will you be auditioning for a part in the play?” At the stage, she moved to stand in front of him. “I’ll have to have a little chat with the casting director to make sure he considers you. I’m sitting in on the auditions today, so I can give my input. It doesn’t matter how good an actor is in his audition if he won’t have any chemistry with me.” As she spoke, she walked her fingers up and down Sherlock’s upper arm. “I don’t think we’ll have any trouble with that though, do you?” Giggling, she tapped his nose then whirled away to trot down the stage’s side steps into the audience area. 

Feeling the urge to scour his nose, Sherlock smoothed out his sleeve and stepped back into the wings where the auditioners were waiting. John was there with Rosie on his hip, the little girl wearing a pair of large headphones with a look of concentration on her face while her lips moved. When she noticed Sherlock’s arrival, she held out her hands, making beckoning motions with them until he picked her out of her father’s hold. John sighed with relief and shook his arm to get the feeling back into it. From the headphones, Sherlock could hear the faint strains of music. 

“They’re auditioning the kids first,” John explained. “Parents are staying up here with them, but after Rosie does her bit, I’ll take her down into the seats to watch yours. Got an idea of what you’re going to read yet?” 

Sherlock looked around at the actors, some of whom he recognised from the television, others from plays and musicals he’d seen in the West End over the years. Most were pacing anxiously and softly repeating lines to themselves while the rest were trying to do meditative breathing. “I have something in mind, but I’ll have to gauge the casting director’s reactions first. Is there any water left in the bag?” 

John swung the nappy bag around to his front and opened several pockets until he found a juice box. He offered it with a sheepish shrug. “Sorry, I used the last bottle to scrub some honey off of  _ someone’s _ hands after lunch break.” 

“It’ll have to do.” Sherlock fumbled with the straw until John breathed out a chuckle and took it from him to stab through the foil closure. “Is she ready?” he asked, tipping his head to the side to press his cheek against Rosie’s forehead. 

“You’d think she’s been doing this since she learned to walk. When I told her that the real play would be in front of hundreds of people, her eyes lit up like yours do when there’s a triple homicide in a locked room.” John returned the drink and brushed the backs of his fingers over Rosie’s cheeks. “It’s almost time, Princess,” he told her when she took off the headphones. 

One of the production assistants came forward to give her a headset microphone and showed John how to tuck the battery pack into the bib of her Osh Kosh. The assistant led her out into the middle of the stage where she placed her on a gaffer tape X and turned on the microphone. 

John wrung his hands as he watched her standing there, knowing that if either of the directors made her cry he’d spoil the entire case, because there would be no play. Because he’d put the man in a coma. 

The casting director was obviously used to working with children though, because with a kind, patient voice he asked her name and what she would be performing for them. 

Rosie hesitated and hummed then jumped with surprise when the sound of her humming boomed out of the speakers on either side of the stage. “I’m Rosamund Watson, but everyone calls me Rosie, except Uncle Scotty.” She shot a quick look into the wings to make sure she’d gotten Sherlock’s false name correct. “He calls me Watson and Daddy calls me Princess, but that’s just what Daddies do.”

The stage lights made it impossible to see the directors, but John could hear amusement in his voice. “It certainly is. And will you be singing for us today?” 

“Yuh huh, but I need Uncle Scotty to come out.” 

“It’s all right if you’re nervous, dear. But your uncle won’t be able to be with you if you get the part. You understand that, don’t you?” 

Scowling, Rosie twisted her fingers into the sides of her overalls. “I know that. But the song I want would be silly if I was doing it by myself. And Daddy says we tag team on him so much that it just makes sense that he would be the one singing with me.” There was an unspoken  _ Obviously  _ at the end of the sentence that even the directors heard. 

This time the amusement was shown through outright laughter. “Okay, dear. You can bring him out.” 

Rosie waved Sherlock over and she showed him the song she’d been listening to. They had performed it countless times in their living room, never having thought it would come in handy.

“You, my little lady, are a genius.” Sherlock bent over and cupped her cheeks so he could press a kiss to her forehead. When he straightened, another production assistant raced out with another microphone. Having a disruption to the usual routine left him looking almost panicked while he hooked it up. 

“When you’re ready.” 

Bouncing for a moment, Rosie’s demeanour changed entirely. She whirled on Sherlock and lunged at him, forcing him to leap back in shock with a hand to his chest. “I’m gonna be a mighty king, so enemies beware!” she sang, stalking after him across the stage as he backed up. 

When he reached the far side of the stage, Sherlock appeared to gather his courage to confront her. He took her pigtails in hand and swung them from side to side. “Well I’ve never seen a king of beasts with quite so little hair.” 

Rosie sniffed with disdain and turned away to address the audience, flicking her hair back. “I’m gonna be the main event, like no king was before.” She dusted off her shoulders and down her chest. “I’m brushin’ up on lookin’ down, and workin’ on my roar!” 

The last lyric was bellowed at Sherlock who did a pratfall and scuttled backwards on his hands until he could rise to his feet and try to look unimpressed. “Thus far, a rather uninspiring thing.” He tucked his hands under Rosie’s armpits and hefted her into the air, spinning her in a circle. 

When she was set down, she did a small dance in spot while singing her next lines. The back and forth stalking across the stage from one side to the other continued with Sherlock eventually chasing her to try to bring her to heel. She ducked and jumped and twisted, always keeping just out of reach until he finally grabbed her and lifted her up onto his shoulder. 

“I just can’t  _ wait  _ to be king!” Arms flung out wide, she held the note for several long beats until Sherlock collapsed onto his back, holding her up out of the way so she could land gently on his chest.

Clearing his throat, he tapped her shoulder. “Um. I beg your pardon, Madame. But- Get. Off.” 

Rosie scrambled to her feet and bowed. 

John couldn’t help himself. He let out a whoop and put his fingers to his lips to whistle loudly. It was only when he stopped his own cheering that he realised that the casting and stage directors were applauding as well. 

“That was wonderful, Miss Watson. We’re all very impressed. And Mrs Trang gave us some notes on your performance during class today. You had fun didn’t you?” the casting director asked. 

“Lotsa fun,” she agreed, still panting. “She’s great. I can’t wait to come back, because next week the class is going to do a monster play, and she said I can be the monster if I promise not to bite her.” 

“We have some things to discuss, but we’ll be letting your Daddy know, one way or another. It was lovely seeing you perform.” 

Bowing again, Rosie held her hand out to Sherlock to take him offstage. 

“Did I do okay?” she asked once her headset was removed. 

John knelt and hugged her tightly, cradling the back of her neck. “You were amazing, Rosie. I am so proud of you.” Leaning back, John blinked rapidly. It was one thing to listen to his daughter belting out songs in the back of the car along with the radio, or watch her prancing around the living room in a homemade tutu, but seeing her on stage, really performing, it was incredible. 

She had shone. 

“Do you think I’ll get the part?” 

“I think you have an excellent chance of it.” 

“Do you think I’ll get a big star with my name on it? In lights?” 

“It’s entirely possible.” 

“Do you think there’s any animal crackers left?” 


	4. Greek Chorus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gloria makes more enemies, we meet more of our cast of characters, and Sherlock gets his first break in the case in the form of a juicy bit of information about their client. And an encouraging shove in John's direction.

John tried to tell himself that it was just parental pride, but some of the other children doing their auditions didn’t appear to have the same confidence that Rosie did with her performance. They were good, there was no denying that, but a lot of them gave the impression that they were only there to please the parents they had waiting in the wings. One boy started weeping after mixing up a song lyric, a girl stood petrified when the spotlight turned on her, and a preteen seemed to hit puberty between key changes. Still, John applauded each of them from his spot in the audience with some other family members and Rosie tried to mimic his whistle before turning her attention back to John’s phone on which she was playing mind teaser puzzles. 

Each child was given an invitation to return for the acting camps regardless of whether or not they would be considered for the parts. That appealed to the children far more than it did to their parents. 

While the adult actors began to file out to do their own auditions, John tried to watch the directors’ faces carefully to see if he could read anything from them. 

The casting director was a man on the far side of middle-aged with a grizzled patch of hair above either ear and at the base of his neck and a shiny pink scalp. His expression was kind even to the actors who badly needed more work. With his glasses perched on the end of his nose and his slightly frayed cardigan he looked like a friendly grandpa. In front of him, he had a stack of headshots and resumes with notes scribbled all over them from one of the cluster of pens sticking out of his pocket and from behind his ears. 

Beside him was the stage director, a tall man with dark brown skin and a neatly trimmed moustache which he tugged every so often. It looked to be a tell, because it happened most when an actor gave a particularly impressive reading and his colleague made a note. John recognised the man from the company website. He had been with them for ten years and had been nominated for and won dozens of awards. After each actor left the stage he would lean down to the casting director to whisper in his ear. 

Nose crinkling with amusement, John noticed that when he had whispered after the last performance, one of the pens fell loose and knocked him in the mouth. There was a silent, affectionate scuffle that ended with the pens being confiscated and held out of reach. It seemed that the bands of gold glinting in the stage lights might be a matching set. 

On the other side of the casting director, Gloria Sunchild sat with her dog on her lap and gave notes to the actors despite efforts to keep her quiet during the songs. One auditioning actress snapped at her to keep her mouth shut when she was interrupted a third time to be told that she needed to pitch her voice lower for a certain lyric. If Gloria kept making enemies of everyone around her, it would be impossible to find just one person who wanted her gone. There would be a line of them around the block and the number was growing each time she voiced an opinion. 

Finally, the director called a halt to the proceedings so everyone could take a few minutes to collect themselves. He yanked his bowtie loose and stormed away from the table to make his way to the stage where John saw him exchanging heated whispers with the actress who had lashed out. Instead of scolding her, it looked as if he was trying to apologise. When he was finished with her he had the same discussion with the other actors. The distance was too great for John to read his lips, but he suspected he was pleading with them to ignore her for the sake of the auditions. 

“Stage actors. They all think they’re so  _ superior  _ because they haven’t been in front of a camera.” 

John’s face twitched into something that might have resembled a pleasant expression, but he thought it might look like he was having a seizure. Flipping his notebook shut he turned to Gloria. “Well, a lot of them are very proud of their skill and training. London has such a big theatre history, after all. There will be people from all over the world in the audience of this show.” 

Either she didn’t catch the dig or she was so self absorbed that she thought it was a compliment, but Gloria fluttered her lashes and rested her hand on John’s forearm. She leaned in and he had to hold his breath to keep from getting a migraine from the cloud of perfume and cigarette smoke that billowed off her. The armrests of the seats kept him from retreating far enough away. “I know! They should be grateful for the opportunity to work with me.” Her hand moved up and down his forearm and tickled the inside of his elbow. “Will you be here with your partner throughout the process? I would feel so much safer with a soldier keeping an eye on me with a maniac out there after me.” 

“He and I will be here until we catch whoever has been harassing you, yes. Although, I have a feeling I’m going to be here much longer than that.” 

“Oh, cheeky! I knew you were a sly one.” She squeezed his arm and tried to graze her nails over the pulse in his wrist but his sleeve was too snugly buttoned. 

“Because my daughter auditioned for a part,” he finished flatly and twisted his arm to get it out from under her grip. 

That time the words got through to her and she reeled back. Her eyes narrowed and for a brief flash John thought she was going to swing her bag at him and that he would be the latest in a long list of victims of assault by Maltipoo. It was only a moment before she regained her composure and set the bag on her lap. The fluffy dog deemed it safe enough to poke his head out. “That’s right, it was your little girl who wowed the directors earlier, wasn’t it?” She leaned around John to look down at Rosie who hadn’t taken her eyes off the phone screen. “I can have a little chat with them, sweetie. To let them know that I think we would do wonderfully on stage together. That way you and your daddy can be here everyday.” 

Rosie solved her puzzle and turned the screen off to finally acknowledge the actress’ existence. Her big blue eyes glanced at her face then her hands then her hair and jewellery. After looking at the bag she straightened back up in her seat. She inhaled deeply through her nose and opened her mouth to speak. 

John moved faster though, and cupped his daughter’s cheek. “That’s very kind of Miss Sunchild, isn’t it, Rosebud? What do we say when someone is being so kind to us?” 

With her chance to wow her father with her deductions scuppered, the wilting Rose huffed and plucked at John’s fingers. “We say Thank You.” 

“That’s right. Because Miss Sunchild is a client.” John held her gaze until the mulish set to her mouth softened and she nodded. 

“Do you think she’ll be even kinder and let me pet her puppy?” 

Giggling, Gloria opened her bag to haul the dog out. John wondered if he even knew how to use his paws. “Oh, you’re such a little angel pie, aren’t you? I can see we’re going to have a great time acting together. This is Alphonso. If you’re a good girl, I’ll let you walk him when I’m in rehearsals.” She set the dog on Rosie’s lap, then awkwardly pressed a kiss to her cheek, leaving a pink smear of Baby Burst My Bubble behind. 

After she left to set herself up in the middle seat at the director’s table, John tugged a tissue out of the cuff of his sleeve. “You can tell me everything you deduced about her on the way home,” he promised, scrubbing the garish lipstick off his daughter’s cheek. She was very sensitive to textures and looked like she wanted to claw the gunk off. “There we go, all clean. Better?”

“She stank,” Rosie muttered then hugged the dog to her chest. “And she didn’t pay attention to your symbols.” 

“I think you mean signals.” While Sherlock had been teaching her to read a person’s body language to work out whether or not they were a criminal, John had taught her body language to help protect herself and her friends and how to recognise a No if someone couldn’t use their words. 

And they had both taught her to aim for the sensitive bits. 

  
  
  
  


“Please, I know she’s being too... enthusiastic about all this, but you have to remember. She’s a television actor. You know how they get.” 

Anton Greene, the play’s director, held his hands out palm up to the actors who were still bristling from Gloria’s unwelcome stage notes. His normally silky deep voice was strained from the stress of having to deal with spoiled celebrities. He looked to be one outburst away from resigning to start a koi farm in Surrey with his husband. 

Some of the actors, those who had done a bit of television work, nodded in understanding. The ones who had done small speaking roles before dying to provide a medical mystery of the week or were cast as the rubbery monster du jour to have a glowing device pointed at them knew that while plenty of screen actors slogged through the same auditions and low pay that they did, there were a few like Gloria Sunchild who thought the world revolved around them. 

“Thank you,” Anton breathed out, shaking hands with those who were closest to him. “I promise, I’ll get things moving smoothly. We’ve all got better things to be doing.” He waved to one of the PAs who brought him a clipboard. “Jenny Reid, Andrew Falmouth, and Peter Nguyen,” he read off the names of three of the actors who had been interrupted throughout their auditions. “I’d like to see the three of you back tomorrow so we can give it another try without the peanut gallery. Anyone else who feels like their performance was hampered is free to return then as well, but we will only be hearing the song, not the monologue.” With a sigh, he tucked the clipboard under his arm. “She’s our Maria. Whoever gets the other parts will have to learn to work with her. On stage, at the very least.” The PA offered to fetch him some coffee before going back to the rest of the auditions. “If a shot of whiskey finds its way into the cup, I wouldn’t be the least bit angry.” 

With the director shuffling back to his seat with considerably less pep than he’d arrived with, the acting hopefuls milled into the wings to let the audio technicians hook up the next three with their mics. Sherlock made his way to the refreshment table which was covered in a surprisingly generous spread for a cattle call. 

A tall young woman squeaked guiltily to be caught wrapping deli sandwiches in paper napkins. Her gym bag had a distinct aroma of sliced turkey and honey mustard wafting from it. “I wasn’t-”

Sherlock lifted a hand and shook his head. “As long as you’re leaving some of the ham and cheddar, I didn’t see a thing.” 

She flashed him a quick grin and passed him one of the wrapped sandwiches before scooping a stack of oatmeal raisin cookies into a zip top bag. “If they put out this sort of thing for all their auditions, I might think about coming to all the open castings to stock up. It wouldn’t matter if I didn’t get the part, I’d be covering my grocery bill.” 

At a glance, Sherlock could see that her leg warmers were hand knitted using yarn that had been harvested from an old jumper and her leotard had been mended more than once by an expert hand with thread that almost matched the fabric. Her shoes were sturdy and scuffed and old. The left one had a hole in the side and her little toe could be seen in a purple sock. Her fingernails were bitten to the quick and she had the haunted, hopeful look of someone who saw a free snack as a blessing from on high. Putting the sandwich in his mouth so he could free up both hands, he swiftly packaged an untouched plate of fig rolls. “These freeze wonderfully, and are very filling. A couple of them make a decent breakfast,” he said after swallowing his bite. He tucked the rolls and a few bottles of juice into the gym bag with a wink. 

“Thanks, mate.” After giving Sherlock a once over, she leaned back a bit to get a better look at his face. “Oh, I recognise you. You did that number with your daughter. It was precious. She’s got pipes on her for a little kid. You’ve gotta be proud.” 

“My niece, actually,” Sherlock corrected, ignoring the usual pang of disappointment he felt when he had to clarify. “Well, not even actually. It’s complicated. I am very proud, though.” 

“Complicated is it?” Turning, she rested her hip on the edge of the table. She cocked her head to the side just enough to peer out into the auditorium where John and Rosie were playing clapping games. “Oh yeah, you’re definitely not brothers.” Her brows bobbed a couple of times while she nibbled on an oat bar. “Seems like one of those situations that can be simpled up real quick. And for a jaw like that, I say go for it. Knock his feet out from under him and see who hits the floor first.” 

Pausing with a bottle of water part way to his lips, Sherlock goggled at the young woman. “I…” he began, but his brain seemed to have switched over to dial up judging by the squealing in his ears. He blinked rapidly until things rebooted and he gave his head a shake to clear away the mental images her suggestion gave. 

She laughed and brushed some crumbs off her hand before holding it out. “Stephanie,” she introduced. “Sorry, you just look like you need the shove. You know, like that scene from 101 Dalmatians where the dogs tangle up their owners?”

Sherlock, who had sat through both adaptations of that film more times than there were puppies in them, shook her hand. “Scott, and if I remember correctly, the owners ended up in the pond.”

Stephanie shrugged and finished off her roll. “Still romantic.” 

“I’ll take it under advisement.” Sherlock managed to take his sip of water to wet his suddenly parched tongue. “Is this your first audition with this company, then?” he asked. 

“Smooth topic shift,” Stephanie teased then nodded. “A friend of mine told me about it. We watched some  _ totally  _ above board recordings of some of their past shows online, and it’s nice to find a production company with such prog’ casting policies. It gives me a shot. So I practised myself a little ditty and waited in line. The rest will hopefully be history. You?” 

“My first audition anywhere in… Good lord, probably since before you were born. I haven’t done this since I was in Uni.” Sherlock fiddled with the bottle cap, walking it over his knuckles and back a few times. “My career took me in other directions. I’m only here because the lead suggested I audition.”

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re friends with that basket case. We were just starting to bond.” Stephanie groaned and let her head drop back until her ponytail almost touched a pile of Gharibaldis. 

Sherlock stopped the bottle cap with his thumb and tried to keep the delight off his face. He hadn’t expected to find any information from the actors who were auditioning that day. “No, no. We’re not friends. I met her through work.” A lie hidden in the truth was always the best way to go in Sherlock’s experience. He wasn’t likely to mix up his stories, but an actress, even an aspiring one, would know how to spot a deception after learning how to create characters with fantasy. “You say she’s a basket case? What do you mean? I’ve only met her a couple of times.” 

With the opportunity to gossip provided, Stephanie beckoned for Sherlock to follow her to one of the clusters of chairs to get comfortable. “Okay, so it’s all second hand info, so don’t go quoting me on this…” Most of the information she gave was already known from John’s digging. The stories about lashing out at costars and being a spoiled brat on and off set were common knowledge. 

Gloria Sunchild had an overworked and underpaid assistant-turned-publicist whose entire career seemed to be trying to keep his client out of the tabloids while also paying off paparazzi to take pictures of her doing community service under the pretence that she was doing it for the good of the city rather than under court order. Some of the stories her employee had tried to bury involved a broken engagement to an aging pop singer; the circumstances that led her to walking out of an interview on a breakfast television program; and at least six different assaulted cab drivers. 

“Her career is circling the drain. I think that’s what this stage thing is about. A sort of ‘Look at me, I can be a good actress!’ attempt or something. No one wants to hire her. I mean, not only does she have, like, zero draw anymore, but I guess it’s not worth the liability cases when she tries to kill a prop guy with a fake baby or something.”

“I wonder what she’s doing with this company,” Sherlock murmured once again, mostly to himself. It was the biggest connection he couldn’t make. 

“You mean you didn’t know that either?” Stephanie rocked back in her chair, her knee tucking up as she laughed with glee. “She’s bankrolling this whole thing! That’s how desperate she is! The producers couldn’t turn down that kind of offer. Have you ever been to a backer’s party? Those things are hell. So Little Miss Sunspot or whatever goes to the producers and says ‘Listen. I’ll be your backer, I just want the lead and top billing.’ They get their musical, and she gets her reputation tidied up. Who’s going to say no to that, even if it means dealing with her shit?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, hello, I love Stephanie. She was originally only meant to have a couple of lines, but after the first exchange between her and Sherlock, I decided, nope, I need more of her. I actually had to reel it back, because I wanted to keep writing her. Even though it doesn't enter into the story in any way, I can tell you her favourite films, the names of the cuddle toys on her bed (which she absolutely has about a dozen of) and what she ate for lunch this afternoon.


	5. Triple Threat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Triple Threat: Someone who can act, dance, and sing. A necessity for musical theatre. 
> 
> Sherlock puts his performance skills to the test with his audition. His monologue strikes a little close to home. While he's been distracted, Gloria's stalker makes a strike of their own.

“Welcome back to the stage, Mr Williams. I see you’re solo this time. You haven’t had a falling out with your duet partner, I trust.” 

John looked up from the tangle of string around his fingers that he and Rosie had been playing with for the last hour during other auditions. Sherlock had stepped out onto stage. 

Except, he wasn’t Sherlock Holmes. 

It always amazed John, seeing the way Sherlock managed to entirely transform himself as he sank into a disguise. Up on that stage wasn’t Sherlock, but Scott Williams. 

His hair was held back from his face with a headband and the cuffs of his trousers were rolled up and pinned in place just below his knees. He was wearing one of John’s button ups which hung off his lanky frame to make him look even more slight. Instead of a middle aged, well off family man, he gave the impression of being a half-starved waif.

With a chuckle that was just as deep as normal, Sherlock shook his head and paced out onto the centre of the stage to take his mark. “No, sir. She’s still here for encouragement, however.” 

The casting director looked over his shoulder to see Rosie waving with a toothy grin. He shared a whisper with the stage director who made a note on Sherlock’s form. 

“Go ahead, Mr Williams. When you’re ready,”

Sherlock bowed then lifted his head to stare at the ceiling as if it weren’t a tangle of lighting rigs and cables. He heaved a shuddering sigh then dropped his head again to look out into the auditorium. “How-” his voice broke slightly and he cleared his throat to try again. “How to be alone,” he began. “It's really not that hard. You just…” He rolled his shoulders in a defeated shrug and buried his hand into his hair, knocking the headband loose. Sherlock caught it before it fell to the floor and twisted his fingers around it. “...don't date. Anyone. And that makes it easier to not accidentally get into a relationship.” He began to pace the stage, ticking off points by smacking the headband into the palm of his hand. “Which makes it easier to not move in with anyone or-” Sherlock licked his lips and he closed his eyes tightly. “Or marry them.” His teeth showed in a quick, desperate grin and he laughed weakly. “I eat a  _ lot  _ of soup. I recommend that. I mean really you can dress however you want. Shower or don't. I used to go to the gym but I don't do that anymore. Some days I only eat cookies,” he giggled and ran his knuckles over the bridge of his nose. “I like to read a lot.”

Extolling the virtues of alcohol as a way of dealing with loneliness, Sherlock tried and failed to sound casual as he paced toward the edge of the stage and back discussing work and other distractions. 

He began to blink. Rapidly. He swiped his hand across his eyes and looked down at his fingers in surprise. Flicking his fingers away from him, Sherlock looked back out to the audience. “Also what you can do is pine after someone completely …  _ unattainable _ . I do that. I have done that. I mean basically for years I've been  _ doing  _ that. What else? Erm. Did I mention reading?”

Under the lights, a single tear shone on the edge of Sherlock’s lashes where it trembled then spilled over to leave a shimmering line down his cheek. He slid the headband back into his hair to push it away from his face.

“Any questions?” 

Sherlock had almost forgotten the thrill he got when he was on stage. The familiar rush of anxiety and the swirl of tension in his stomach was there as he waited for the directors to give him notes. The other actors had been asked to try a few lines with different inflection, or asked their thoughts on a piece to see if they had put any sort of work into character development. When the pair only murmured to one another, Sherlock tucked his hands behind his back to hide his twisting fingers. 

“Have you prepared a song for us, Mr Williams?” the casting director finally asked. 

“I have. The music is with the sound manager.” He hadn’t been expecting that. Everyone else had performed either a monologue or a song in one performance, to be called out later to give the other if the directors wanted to see their range. Most of the singers were aiming for background chorus placement rather than any of the named characters. 

“We’d like to hear it, please.” 

Nodding to the tattooed and pierced technician in the wings, Sherlock stepped back down stage. He flexed his hands and lifted his feet one after the other to stretch out his legs while the music was set up. Then, the faint strains of an orchestra hummed from the speakers. 

“Open the gates and seize the day

Don’t be afraid and don’t delay

Nothing can break us

No one can make us

Give our rights away. 

Arise and seize the day.” 

As the music changed its tempo, Sherlock threw his hands out to the sides. He rose onto the ball of one foot and spun, lifting his hands into the air to bring himself into a tight line. Three quick rotations and he slammed his other foot to the floor to stop himself. With the next chorus, the words he sang were punctuated with bouncing jig steps. His curls struggled free from his headband to dance loose around his face while his feet thudded against the stage floor. He skipped backwards and made a wide circle of the stage as if there were a group of ragamuffin boys there holding picket signs and fighting with wooden swords. 

Under the brightness of the spotlight, Sherlock pulled himself into another pirouette. He moved as if he was on ice, the spin slow at first but getting faster with each rotation until his arms were overhead with his fingers laced together. The last lingering notes of the final lyric wavered and he stepped free of the spin to leap forward and land on one knee. 

His ears were roaring and the theatre was still whirling around him and he barely heard the directors thank him and ask him to keep his schedule open. 

“Oh my god, you were awesome!” Stephanie slammed into him when he stepped into the wings. After her own impressive performance she had stayed behind to cheer Sherlock on. She smacked him hard in each shoulder before holding him at arm’s length. “How the hell did you do that? Your timing is incredible!” 

“I think I broke my kneecap and I can’t see straight.” Try as he might to sound modest, Sherlock was grinning. “I’ve missed this,” he confessed, leading his new ally out of the way so the next performer could audition. “The lights, the chaos, the eyes on me, the pressure. I’d forgotten how much I love it.”

Stephanie rubbed her elbow over his ribs. “We’ll have to keep you out of that office job you’re stuck in, or whatever you gave this up for. You’ll be doing Shakespeare in the park and starving with the rest of us soon.” Borrowing a felt tip from one of the stage managers, she scribbled her email address and mobile number on the inside of Sherlock’s arm. “In case I don’t get a call back from them, I still want one from you. Promise,” she ordered. 

Sherlock was still giddy and almost spoiled everything by writing out half of his Science Of Deduction email address. “Just text, it’s easier,” he insisted as he scrawled out his number on a napkin. 

Other actors clapped him on the back and congratulated him, some with more sincerity than the rest. After unpinning the cuffs of his trousers and changing into one of his own shirts, Sherlock trotted down the hall to the auditorium door. 

John was already there waiting for him. “Rosie’s with the directors to learn some behind the scenes stuff,” he whispered, curling his hand around Sherlock’s elbow to bring him back out into the hall. When the door shut silently behind him he turned Sherlock around to face him. “That was amazing!” His eyes were bright and his voice breathy and pride was radiating off of him. “I knew you could- I mean, you’ve always been a brilliant actor. But that… Sherlock, that was incredible.” John cupped the side of Sherlock’s neck, his fingertips pressing gently against the base of his skull and his thumb against the line of his jaw to keep him from trying to duck his head under the weight of the praise. “You were incredible.”

Even after all this time, Sherlock was still startled when John showered him with compliments. It was better than any round of applause. “I haven’t done something like that in years. I’ve been hoping for a case like this since I started working.” The adrenaline that was still churning though his body emboldened him and Sherlock reached up to cover John’s hand with his own. “You really enjoyed it?” 

“Award winning,” John laughed, nodding. “I don’t think that you’ll be needing our client dropping hints for you. You should have seen the directors out there.” He moved his thumb to gently stroke Sherlock’s jaw as he spoke. “They were riveted the whole time.” Spreading his fingers, John let Sherlock’s slip between them so they were linked together. 

“John, I-” 

A high, wall-rattling scream pierced the air. From inside the auditorium it sounded as if something was toppled over and the music cut out. 

Fatherly panic sent John back into the auditorium at a sprint. He almost took the door off its hinges in his rush, leaving a dent in the plaster from the knob. Sherlock was close on his heels and ran into him when John rocked to a halt at the first row of seats. 

Rosie was tucked safely into a chair between the directors with her hands over her ears to drown out the screams. 

On the stage, Gloria held her fluffy coat out in front of her and screamed again. Tears left mascara streaks down her cheeks. “Who is doing this?” she demanded, shoving the coat out toward the directors. 

The sleeves had been slashed and the back torn from hem to collar in several places. It was splashed with red paint, still wet and dripping off of tufts of the fake fur. Gloria hurled it to the stage floor. “Someone here is out to get me, and I demand that you do something about this. I don’t care what! Hire security! Or fire the crew! Just do something.” She kicked at the ruined coat and nearly staggered off her high heel. A stage manager came out to offer her a tissue and lead her away but had to duck away from her lashed fist. 

While the directors climbed onto the stage to try to offer comfort and promises, Sherlock turned to John with a frown. 

“What’s wrong?” John asked. 

“Her dressing room was fine when I went to investigate,” he explained, fetching the nappy bag and beckoning for Rosie. 

“So whoever did that, they could have come with the actors. Or the kiddie class. Or could've already been here.” 

Boosting his niece up onto his hip, Sherlock nodded. “Our suspect list just exploded.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's monologue is from East Haddam by Adam Szymkowicz. I found it on a website of audition monologues and it kneed me in the gut with just how much it reminded me of Sherlock. As a last minute decision, I omitted the line about dancing with a unicorn.   
> I agonised for ages about what song Sherlock should sing for his audition, to the point where I actually considered writing two versions of this chapter. I'm still considering writing the other version. The conflict was the the song I have in mind for the other version is both more impressive and I personally feel it touches a chord to who Sherlock is as a character (And every version I've heard of it being sung has at one time brought me to tears) but it doesn't really have much opportunity in it for dancing. Seize The Day is a great song, don't get me wrong, but it's more about the dance for me. If you've seen clips of Newsies live, you'll know exactly what I mean. Any guesses what the other song I was planning on going with might be? I'll give a clue, it's also from a Disney Renaissaince film


	6. Cold Read

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cold Read: A- Working through the words of a script to get an idea of the length, without any real acting involved. B- Making deductions of a person's thoughts and intentions based on subtle tells they don't realise they are giving off.
> 
> The play is cast, the actors have arrived, and it's time for the first read through of the script. John takes advantage of his role as Stage Dad to do a bit of investigating of his own. Investigations aren't the only thing he's becoming more comfortable with, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't seen Sound of Music, the Captain's first name is pronounced with hard Gs (as in the first letter sounds the same as in Golly or Gordon, not like Giraffe) so Ghee-Org instead of Jee-Orge.   
> Also, while it doesn't exactly pertain to the plot, I thought I would just let reader know that I blended the Julie Andrews film with the Sound of Music Live production directed by Coky Giedroyc, who also directed the Sherlock pilot. Yes, THAT pilot. So, there's a fun fact for you!

Two call backs and a shriek of delight later found Rosie getting the part of Gretl von Trapp. At each of the call backs she demonstrated a different skill that was asked of her. She performed a brilliant monologue by reciting a passage from one of her favourite books, showed that she could memorise a dance routine, and sang some other songs to give an example of her range. By the end of it, Rosie was already making plans as to where she would display her future award statues. 

Sherlock’s process was not much different. He was asked to read with different actors, given a song to perform, and a choreographed number to dance. And if he bellowed with delight as well when he was given the part of the Captain, he insisted it was because it meant he could continue the case undercover. And if his eyes became over bright when Rosie declared that the best part of it all was that he would be playing her father, he managed to blink tears back before they spilled over. 

They arrived for the first full script read with John in tow. Like the parents of the other child cast members, he was there mostly to hold things and give the occasional thumbs up. He swapped the nappy bag for a backpack so he could carry some of Sherlock’s items as well and was armed with hand sanitiser, tissues, a butterfly knife, and fruit puree squeeze bottles. 

“Scott!” 

John swept Rosie out of the way as a young woman took a flying leap off the edge of the stage at Sherlock’s head. He moved forward, ready to tackle Sherlock out of harm before the woman could land on him, his mind racing as he tried to figure out who would want to kill him this time, but before he could make his move he saw that his friend was grinning. 

Sherlock caught the woman by the waist to ease her landing and set her down. “You never said you got a part.”

Stephanie bounced on her heels a few times, punching the air. “I got the final call last night. I wanted it to be a surprise. They cast me as one of the nuns. Can you imagine? God, my parents will be livid. Me! A nun! There will be letters. But that’s not even the best part.” Still bouncing, she gestured to Sherlock, clearly expecting him to guess what the best part might be. 

“They pay more than you thought they would?” he ventured. 

“No! I mean, yes they do. Holy hell, do they pay more than I thought. But the best bit is that they want me to understudy for Leisl.” She flapped her hands before pressing them to her cheeks. “This is the biggest break of my life, and I keep waiting for someone to pinch me and wake me up.” 

Rosie reached around Sherlock’s side so she could gently pinch the actress on the stomach. “Nope,” she said. “You’re awake. I’m Rosie.” 

Stephanie looked down at the girl and giggled. “Hi Rosie, I’m Stephanie. Are you excited to be on stage?” 

While the two chatted, John shot Sherlock a surprised look. “You made a friend. Is she the one who’s been sending you cat pictures all week?” 

From anyone else, it might have sounded mocking. But John was genuinely pleased that Sherlock had formed a bond with someone over a shared love of acting instead of his usual acquaintances from the criminal underbelly of London and the occasional amateur anthropologist who wanted to touch his skull. 

“Some of them were dog pictures,” Sherlock pointed out. Over the past week they had sent one another messages of encouragement and congratulations, and Sherlock heard about theatre gossip, open secrets within the world, and about the anonymous benefactor who had funded her campaign for new shoes and undergarments. 

Sherlock liked to provide for his friends when he could. 

“All right, everybody!” The director pushed his glasses up onto his head after clapping a few times to get attention. “We’re almost all here, so let’s take a seat. Parents, thank you for coming and giving your support, but we ask that you try to keep quiet. This is a lengthy performance, so the less time we take shushing you, the sooner we’ll get the script read done. We’re going to go around and introduce ourselves to get to know everyone first. Don’t worry, we won’t be doing any Cookie Jar nonsense.” Laughter rippled through the older cast members while the children looked disappointed and confused. “Let’s start with the family.” 

Chairs squeaked on the floor as cast and crew made themselves comfortable for the long haul. John handed Rosie her water bottle and a straw and made sure she had plenty of napkins in case she got distracted enough to spill on herself. She already had her plush puppy tucked behind her back to double as a cushion and her chair was close to Sherlock’s so that she could collapse over onto him if boredom got to be too much for her. 

Gloria made a grand entrance from the stage wing, tossing the curtains aside to step out and approach the rest of the cast. “I’m so sorry I was delayed, darlings. My driver made a wrong turn. He’s new, you know how it is.” 

John, who had seen the hired car making circles of the block when they had come in, guessed that the driver was under orders to wait to put Gloria at the centre of attention for the first reading to make an impression with the rest of the actors. At least she hadn’t put things behind schedule by more than a few minutes.

There was some annoyed mumbling from the chorus while Gloria took her time making herself comfortable, then put on a show of primping her dog and filling a bowl with mineral water for him. When she was finally finished, she hauled her script out of the bag and set it on her lap. “There! All set,” she said, ignoring the few dirty looks that were cast in her direction. “What did I miss?” 

Anton Greene, their stage director, looked up at the ceiling and John recognised the expression of a man who was silently counting backwards from ten to keep an outburst from taking over. He inhaled through his nose loud enough to be heard all over the stage then let it out slowly. “We’re doing cast and character introductions, Gloria. We may as well start with you, as our Maria.” 

A pleased glow tinted her cheeks and the actress pushed her sunglasses up into her hair. “Well, you all know me. I’m Glory Sunchild, and I’ll be playing Maria von Trapp. She’s a headstrong, brave girl with a stubborn streak. Reminds me quite a bit of myself, really.”

Before she could go off on a ramble, Anton lurched forward to gesture desperately at Sherlock to continue. 

His voice cracked with humour and Sherlock had to take a sip from Rosie’s bottle to clear his throat. “Scott Williams, and I’ll be playing Georg von Trapp. I’m not sure if this was an error just with my script, but I noticed that a lot of the times his name was used, it was spelled as George. If anyone is unfamiliar with the production, it might cause confusion.”

While the actors checked their scripts and made corrections, Gloria pouted and reached out with her foot to brush Sherlock’s calf. “Oh, you mean I don’t get to call you Georgie Porgie? What a shame. Perhaps just offstage, then.” She winked and tried to slide her foot higher, but the chair leg got in the way. 

“Miss Sunchild, please, we want to get through this reading by lunch or we’ll never have time for initial costume fittings.” Anton looked like his koi farm was just on the horizon. He’d already loosened his bowtie and begun to fan himself with his script. “Shall we continue?” 

Anna Trang introduced herself, followed by the rest of the von Trapp children. Rosie was enthusiastic when they came to her. She had her script spread out over her knees, each of her regular lines carefully highlighted in green with emoji stickers beside them to help her remember what sort of emotion she needed to use for the delivery. The song lyrics for her character were highlighted in blue, and stage directions in purple. With a red pen, she scribbled on her script when the others did despite not knowing what she was meant to be writing other than the few words she knew how to spell. She listened carefully to the director whenever he spoke and raised her hand if she had a question so she didn’t interrupt the process. 

The actresses playing the nuns had already formed a little band of solidarity, clumped together on one side of the circle passing a tin of biscuits back and forth while everyone else spoke, and John was impressed to learn that Sherlock’s new friend wasn’t the only trans actress cast amongst them. They ranged in age from early twenties to a matronly Mother Abbess in her late fifties who was serenely doing needlepoint. 

The Baroness was being played by a veteran performer of dozens of different plays and small parts on nearly every BBC show from the last decade. Introducing herself over a thermos cup of tea, she wore yoga bottoms and an oversized sweatshirt with her hair in a messy bun at the top of her head. She looked like she was ready to brave the line at a packed Tesco, rather than dance and sing about the hardships of being a millionaire. 

For each new cast member who introduced themselves, John made an entry into his notepad, giving a brief description along with any impressions he got from them. It was plain that most of the cast couldn’t stand their lead actress, but he couldn’t imagine any of them doing anything more harmful than sneezing on her bagel. Sherlock had explained to him that their client was bankrolling the performance and that most of the cast knew that without her involvement they would all be without jobs until the next audition. It simply didn’t make sense for her to be the target of threats from her costars. 

By the time the script read finally began, the children looked exhausted from having to sit still for so long. Rosie had laid her head on Sherlock’s knee with her puppy hugged to her chest, but her sharp eyes moved around the circle as she waited for her first line. 

For all her childish behaviour and attention seeking, Gloria settled down for the read. Her vocal range was excellent even sitting down with only a recording of music as an accompaniment. She might not take the theatre seriously, but she was serious about her role and her attempts at a new reputation. After her first song she seemed genuine when she asked the rest of the cast for their thoughts on how she might improve. 

Any hopes for getting through the entire script before lunch were dashed when delay followed delay. The boy playing Kurt developed the hiccups which shook his body every other word while trying to sing about deer and sun drops; the Mother Abbess knocked her biscuit tin over as she moved to help him off stage for some water; one of the stage managers sprinted out into the circle in a panic to tell the director that a major background piece had been damaged in transport; and Gloria’s dog ate four of the spilled biscuits then vomited them up again.

Before the dog could consider giving the biscuits a second try, Anton called a halt. “Just-” He looked around and remembered that a good number of the cast were under the age of eighteen and reconsidered his choice of words. “Let’s just take a breather for lunch, shall we?” he finished in a gentler tone. “Everyone back here in forty-five minutes, ready to pick up where we left off.” Swabbing his face with the ends of his bowtie, Anton followed the stage manager away. 

“Ready to give up your career for all this?” John teased as he strolled over to Sherlock to offer him the cup of tea he’d grabbed from the craft services table. He told Rosie to pick out something for herself with the rest of the children. She had already made friends with the young girl cast as Marta and the pair went arm in arm to fill their plates with snacks.

“That?” Sherlock gestured after the director who was waving his hands wildly at an unfazed set designer. “That was nothing. My first year of Uni we did Midsummer Night’s Dream, and three of the fairies got into magic mushrooms the night of the first performance, the director broke his collarbone trying to chase them out of the rigging, and I developed an allergic reaction to the pound shop glitter glue they decided to use for my Puck’s makeup. All that, and my costume consisted mostly of silk leaves and hope.” 

John was a writer, for all that he insisted he had no talent for the craft. He had a strong imagination that had a tendency to get away from him where Sherlock was concerned. And the directions his imagination took that visual to run with were places he wasn’t entirely ready to follow while in a room full of strangers. His nose twitched and he pursed his lips while shifting in position. Unconsciously, he squared up, putting his hands on his hips with his shoulders back and his chin lifted slightly. “Right,” he replied. “Well. The costume department here had better have something more reasonable in mind for you.” With the corner of his mouth refusing to stay in one spot, John leaned in. “Did they have you in wings?” 

Sherlock dragged his eyes over John’s figure. His nose scrunching in amusement, he took a long swallow of his tea. “Big gauzy numbers,” he nodded. “And flowers in my hair.” Peering into the cup, Sherlock swirled it around before he hummed thoughtfully. “I’m sure a recording of it exists on the drama society’s website, still. If you’d like to watch it, I mean.” 

They were getting better at things, John knew. One of them could make a sly suggestion like that without the other running for the hills. They could tease and flirt and come so close it was a torment. But it was never at the right time. In the middle of an undercover case with dozens of people practically in their pockets was far from the right time. Huffing out a sigh, John relaxed his pose, shaking out his shoulders and hands. “I think a daisy crown from the park will do nicely,” he chuckled, bumping Sherlock’s shoulder with his hip. A lifetime ago, they would have spent weeks walking on eggshells after an exchange like that. Now, they slipped it easily onto the back burner. 

Even if it was still left on a simmer. 

  
  
  


“Tom, darling, really. You don’t need to use a German accent. No one is expecting it.” 

“Why not?” Tom was an earnest young man who until recently had been working as a trolley boy during the day and reading acting books at night. His approach suggested he had absorbed the chapters about method acting and skimmed over the rest. 

Anton’s head was drooping almost to his knees and his glasses hung off one finger while he massaged the back of his skull. “Because, darling. None of the other actors are using one. Because you sing with a London accent. And because you weren’t using one at the beginning.” Twisting his head from side to side, he straightened and set his glasses back in place. “Right, Scott, you say-”

“You’ll never be one of them,” Sherlock continued, stifling a yawn with his fist. It had been a long few hours. Even with the break for lunch to get up and move around, his arse was numb from the hard plastic chair, his voice was raw from singing, and he had red ink staining his fingers from making so many notes. 

“Great, and there’s chaos and running and there’s a stirring encore of Climb Ev’ry Mountain. Curtains fall, the end.” The director knocked back the rest of his cold tea with a grimace. They were more than an hour behind schedule, even the tenuous schedule that had been put in place. The suggestion to have cast members go to the costumers between the long stretches when they weren’t needed had backfired when the actor cast as Max had missed his cue by twelve minutes. 

With the announcement that they were finally finished, the actors let out a collective sigh of relief. Children who were far too full of juice and had been pushed to the limits of their endurance bolted for the toilets before they had to be subjected to the stress of costume fittings. John chased after Rosie to make sure she didn’t go wandering when she was done washing her hands so he could get her in for her first measurements. 

“Costume is down here, is it?” John asked, tapping on one of the doors he found in the basement. 

“Yes, love, but we don’t let in looky loos, we’re too swamped.” A woman with tailor’s tape around her neck and thick red and steel grey braids pinned in a crown on her head didn’t look up from her dress form where she was measuring the length of a skirt. She made a snip in the fabric then tore the rest away with a decisive rip. 

“Oh, ah, no. I’m not here to be nosy. I’ve got one of the actresses in the hall and I wanted to see if I could get her in before the rest of the stampede. I think the others are still up there arguing over the last of the bagels.” Sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck, John leaned to the side so Rosie could poke her head in the door. 

With her glasses perched on the end of her nose, the costumer glanced from her work. “Right, sorry. Security has been getting a bit stronger lately. It’s like working on a bloody film set again.” She rolled her eyes and used the back of her wrist to push the glasses into place before turning to a stack of cast photos. “Are we Gretl, or are we Marta?” she asked, flipping through the photos until she found Rosie’s. Sitting on a swivelling office chair in the small room, she pushed from one surface to the other, swinging around and shoving things out of the way with her foot. “Up on the step stool, munchkin.” 

Rosie looked up to John for reassurance then stepped onto the wobbly stool. “I’m Rosie, and I’m playing Gretl. Rosie Watson. Hello.” 

“Hello, Rosie Watson, I’m Angharad Hughes. Are you going to stand still, or am I going to have to put you on the rack?” Winking, she tugged the tape from her neck then pointed to John. “Do something useful and take down the measurements I call out. Write ‘em on the board there next to her name. She’s not due for a growth spurt in the next month or so, is she?” She went to work without checking to see if John would obey her orders or waiting for him to answer the question. Each measurement was barked out and marked down on a wall chart with each cast member listed next to a photo of them. 

“You said security has gotten stricter? Is that because of the lead actress?” John asked, trying to sound casual. “I was here when she had a meltdown over a damaged coat or some other. Why would they need security for a little prank?” 

Around a mouthful of pins, Angharad snorted. Despite her brusque manner, she was gentle and careful as she draped a sheet of muslin fabric over Rosie’s shoulders and pinned it in place to shape pattern blocks. “She d’n’t think it was much of a prank. Arms up, munchkin. I’ve dealt with every kind of actor, and they’ve all got one thing in common. They wanna be the centre of attention. So sometimes they turn a little thing into a big one. But this has been getting to be some real Opera Ghost problems. Can you bend and touch your toes, or is it too tight?” 

It took John a moment to realise that that question hadn’t been directed at him. “Opera Gho- Oh, you mean it’s been more than just that coat getting torn?” He stooped to pick up the pins that had popped loose when Rosie leaned over to put her palms to the stool. “I think it might be a bit too short in the back.” 

“Nah, the coat was just the most recent from what I hear.” She adjusted the marks for the hemline to come closer to Rosie’s knees. “There, that’s more decent, yeah? We’ll keep you from mooning the audience.” 

Giggling, Rosie pressed her shoulder up against her cheek and wrinkled her nose. “No mooning,” she agreed. 

John handed over a quilting pen so Angharad could mark the pattern pieces when they found the right fit that would allow the girl to dance and run around. “Christ, what’s been going on? My lass has never done a play before, but I didn’t think it would be dangerous for her.” 

“Don’t worry, mother hen. No one else has said boo about anything going on with them. Everything that’s happened has been directed at that… What’s her name? Gabby? Glory?” 

“Gloria,” John replied, drumming his fingers on his stomach. “She’s some big to do telly star.”

“Bah.” Pins almost went flying as the costumer flapped her hand. “Soap star. They’re barely a step up from those kids who have cameras following them around to tanning salons and getting their hoodle doos blinged out. We get  _ real  _ actors here at The Riverview. Stage doors thronged with squealing fans kind of actors. Oops I dropped my Olivier and three BAFTAs actors. That Gloria is just lucky that the producers wanted to do a show with some no-names this season, otherwise she wouldn’t have even been looked at twice for this role. I don’t know why anyone would even bother with trying to chase her off. It’s probably about something she did elsewhere. From what they’ve been saying back here, she’s ticked off everyone and their mother.”

She removed all the fixators and folded the sheet of fabric to put in a box with Gretl-Main written on it. “There you go, munchkin. Send in the next kid on your way out? I’ve got about three hundred pieces to get through and my assistant is running late with my coffee.”

John helped Rosie off the stool and thanked Angharad for her patience. In the hall the rest of the von Trapp children and their understudies were lined up, most on their phones while the others jostled together. 

After giving her friend a hip bump goodbye, and tucking her hand into her father’s, Rosie had a thoughtful frown on her face, one John had seen so many times on a certain detective’s over the years. “What’s on your mind, Rosebud?” he asked as they climbed the stairs. 

“What’s a hoodle doo?” she finally questioned. 

“I… I really don’t know.” 


	7. Intermission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well into the investigation, Sherlock realises he hasn't been giving it his all. He's become far more enamoured with life in the theatre, and wonders if he'd gone in the right direction. His skill as an actor could have taken him to great heights.   
> But he never would have given up the opportunity to have John and Rosie in his life. No amount of applause could ever compare.   
> And John finally feels bold enough to take a leap forward.

Sherlock was getting too involved with this case, he knew it. 

Actually, he wasn’t getting involved enough, he supposed. He hadn’t put much thought into their growing suspect list and instead of questioning the other actors to get information, he found himself much happier to chat with them about their previous work and hopes for what they would do after the show’s run was up. He was enjoying himself far too much. 

Even that afternoon, while John and Rosie were taking advantage of a sunny day to take a stroll in the park with her rabbit, rather than doing research or reaching out to contacts, he was reciting lines to himself in the mirror while making different expressions to find the best reading. 

This was where his life could have been, if things had taken a different direction. Taking on the role of another character gave him the same sort of rush that a deduction did. People were pleased to have him on stage. John wasn’t the only one to applaud and praise him. Since the case had started, no one had called him a freak, a dickhead, a bastard. When he’d been unable to stop himself from making a comment about a fellow actor’s home life, it had been met with a chuckle rather than a blow. To them, his observations were just another interesting way to improve his craft and they asked for his suggestions. 

It was hard to imagine what things might have been like if he’d chosen to pursue his acting talents. Would he have been another starving artist showing up to auditions and constantly checking his phone while he waited for call backs and filled coffee cups to pay the bills, or would he have sparkled on the stage moving from role to role until landing the one that put him on the cover of every magazine? Instead of digging through garbage tips looking for clues or paying for tidbits of information, he could have been lounging on a deck chair poolside in a sunny villa while skimming script offers and letting a personal assistant arrange his next appearance on late night television. 

Any risk or danger would have been kept at a distance. Madmen obsessed with him would be dealt with by security details so he wouldn’t need to be the least inconvenienced by their presence. Sherlock couldn’t help but see the appeal in it all. None of it would have meant he would have to give up his skill for deduction or science. Even actors had hobbies. 

Turning from the script he looked at himself in the mirror. It could all have been so different for him. 

“Sher?” 

The front door opened and closed, and John tramped up the seventeen steps to the living room. Pushing the door open with his hip, he carried Rosie like a parcel under one arm, while the other held a large gold and white rabbit with muddy dripping ears. “Think you can take a break from the case for a bit to give me a hand?” he asked Sherlock’s reflection.

“Er-” Sherlock flipped the script closed and set it on the mantelpiece.”Of course, what do you need?” 

John handed the rabbit over so he could switch Rosie to the other arm to take off her mud caked shoes. “Clean Porridge while I handle this bog beast, would you?” 

The rabbit tossed her head rapidly, her floppy ears flinging muck about. From the glint in her eyes, she knew exactly what she was doing. Sherlock scooped her up and unbuckled her harness. “What happened? You look exhausted.” 

“Well, let’s see,” John grunted while heading to the bathroom. When he turned his back to go down the hall, Sherlock could see that Rosie had dirt and grass stains from her ankles to her shoulders and a wet patch on her bottom. “First, we stopped to grab some fairy floss. You know, it’s a nice day, I thought it would be a treat.” 

“Oh dear.” Tucking a hand under Porridge’s tail to support her, Sherlock followed. 

“Oh dear indeed! It was in her hand less than ten seconds before it was all over her face. And shirt. And hair. And my hair.” John pointed to a patch near his temple which was no longer a fetching shade of silver, but pink and purple. “Okay, I can handle that. Just a bit of stickiness. It’s  _ fine _ . Really. Parenting, you know, stickiness happens.”

Pressing his lips tightly together to keep from laughing, Sherlock nodded solemnly. “Go on,” he urged. He set the rabbit on the bathroom vanity and ran some warm water into the sink while John filled the tub. 

“We always take the same route for our walks. You’ve taken it, up around the water’s edge, to the canal, and back. Maybe a turn around the band shell if there’s anyone playing.” John peeled Rosie’s wet clothes off and tossed them in the general direction of the laundry hamper before ordering her into the tub. “You can stop giggling, you know,” he told her. “Stop looking so pleased with yourself.” 

Sherlock handed a bottle of no-tears shampoo and a sponge to John then turned his attention to the rabbit. He dipped a cloth into the sink and used it to wipe the mud and grit from her ears and paws. “Did they fall in the lake?” he asked. 

“That would be what would happen to  _ other  _ families, wouldn’t it? A toddle near the water and a slip in, that would be understandable. But not our dear daughter, no.” 

If John noticed the intake of breath, so sharp that it made Sherlock dizzy, he didn’t let it interrupt him. 

“No, our girl has to be as much of a lunatic as you are. With a pet like that monster.” 

Sherlock needed the excuse to stop staring at the back of John’s head in case he turned around and saw his expression. Picking Porridge off of the vanity, he lifted her up and gave her a stern look. “Oh, you were a monster, were you?” The lop rubbed her teeth together in a soft purr, not the least bit contrite about whatever trouble she and her girl had gotten into. 

“Now, I know it’s not as weird as that bloke who walks the peacock round the park, or those hipster kids with their pigs on leads. Still, I expected to get a few giggles walking the rabbit. Maybe some old ladies cooing over how cute they are. What I didn’t expect was for there to be an outright brawl.” Cupping water in his hands, John used it to rinse the shampoo from his daughter’s hair. A few leaves and twigs washed out into the bathwater. “There was this chav there with his kid and dog. One of those yappy little buggers. The dog was loud, too.” 

“I think I see where this is going,” Sherlock murmured as he took a seat on the edge of the tub with Rosie’s pet tucked comfortably on his lap. 

“Oh, it’s much worse than that. The kid let go of the dog’s leash. You know that thing she does to Mycroft’s leg when he comes round? The sort of… karate move?” 

Porridge had taken an immediate and unshakeable dislike to Mycroft Holmes and saw him as a threat to their home and happiness. She couldn’t be loose in the same room as him without throwing herself into the air to slam her enormous back paws into his leg while screaming protests. One memorable kick had caught him in the groin. It was several months before he visited again after that. 

“It was like a bloody MMA fight. Binkying all over the place and kicking the sh- stuffing out of the dog.”

That time, Sherlock wasn’t able to bite back his laughter. He pushed his knuckles against his mouth to stem anymore. “Mhmm?” It sounded more like a whine than a question. 

“The monster is half kangaroo, I swear. Well, the kid runs up because his dog isn’t ripping her to shreds and he’s pissed off. And even more because the dog’s terrified now. So of course he starts yelling at Rose.”

Peeking out through the wet locks of hair that covered her face, Rosie grinned wickedly. “I clocked him!” she crowed. “Thumb on the outside, like you taught me. Pow! In the nose!” She held out her tiny fist to show that her knuckles were split and red. “So he pushed me.”

“Right into the mud puddle. The only mud puddle in the entire park, I’m sure.” There was an obvious hint of pride in John’s voice now. “After she landed… Well... She-”

“I kicked him in his testicles!” 

“Which is when the boy’s dad came over. Yelling.” 

“He tried to punch Daddy. So Daddy tackled him down.” Rosie clapped one hand against the other, making it splash into the water. “He was huge, too. Way bigger than Daddy. He was a giant.”

“Yes, your Daddy has a habit of doing that. Since he’s so much smaller than everyone else, he doesn’t have much choice when it comes to his tackling victims. They’re all much bigger than him.” Setting Porridge on the floor so she could go have a well-earned race around the flat, Sherlock shook out a large towel for Rosie to climb into. “He’d have to be on a step ladder to make things more even for most people.” 

John flicked bubbles at Sherlock with a smirk. “You’re not helping.”

“I wasn’t trying to,” Sherlock said sweetly. “You’ve both had such an adventure, I’m sure you’ve worked up an appetite. What do the returning warriors want for dinner?”

If his life had taken him in a different direction, he would have missed out on all of this. He wouldn’t trade one moment of his life with John and Rosie for anything. All the raucous applause in the world could never compare to a soft chuckle from John and the almost lingering press of his hip as he passed him on the way out of the bathroom to order their favourite takeaway.

  
  
  


_ Our daughter. Ours. His. But also mine. He said our. He wasn’t thinking. He was frustrated. He said it twice. Our daughter. Our girl. He compared her to me. Not for the first time. Says she takes after me. He wasn’t paying attention. What if he was? What if it was intentional? He wouldn’t do that. He might do that. His voice was so affectionate. Happy John. A happy John is a gentle one. Smiling. Teasing. His nose crinkles and his cheeks soften and his head rolls to the side to hide the mirth. He doesn’t hide it as often lately. Doesn’t hide his amusement his happiness his joy his affection. Happy John. Grinning John. Giggling John. A light brush of fingers on the back of my neck. Gentle. Callused fingers. Strong. His thumb on my jaw. To keep me from hiding my eyes. To keep me looking at him. Laughing softly. No cruelty in his laughter. Never. Ours. Mine. _

“It took three stories, but she’s down.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped back into focus and he looked up to John who came into the living room with a baby monitor in one hand. He had changed into a pair of comfortable pyjama bottoms and one of his old army PT shirts. 

Grinning, John set the monitor on the table and sank slowly into his chair. He stretched out his leg to prod Sherlock with his toes. “Where were you?” 

“Miles away,” Sherlock replied quietly. The leather creaked under him as he shifted in his own chair to get more comfortable, dropping his feet to the floor. 

“Well, stick around, would you? It gets lonely talking to myself.” 

The tussle in the park had left him a bit sore. There had been a time when he could have tackled a man twice his size without pause, then gone on to chase Sherlock all over London before his body started to protest. There had also been a time when the thought of changing into his pyjamas at half nine made him shudder instead of being something to look forward to. John slipped his hand under the collar of his shirt to massage his shoulder carefully, lifting his arm and rotating it in the hopes of getting it to loosen up for him. On a colder night, he would have asked Sherlock to light the fire until the warmth sank into his muscles and eased every ache and bruise. Now, he winced when his fingertips met a particularly tender spot near his scar and wondered if they could handle the crackle and heat of the flames on a humid summer night. 

Sherlock stood and went to the kitchen. As he passed, he brushed his fingers over John’s arm. When he returned he stood behind him to tuck a cloth wrapped ice pack under his shirt. “Better?” 

John let his head fall back to the edge of the chair and smiled up at Sherlock. “Much. But one word about me being old, and I’m throwing out your latest mould samples.”

“I wouldn’t dream about it. But I see that your silver is back.” It was supposed to sound like a joke, but Sherlock’s voice was quiet and his fingers were brave as he caressed the hair behind John’s temple. With his styling products washed out, his hair was softer than Sherlock had expected. 

So much of John surpassed any of his expectations. Baffled his assumptions. One moment he could be breaking a chair over an attacker, the next he would be carefully patching up an injury while tutting. He was proud and confident and modest and dismissive of his own talents and abilities. 

And he wasn’t pushing Sherlock’s hand away when his fingers threaded deeper into his hair. In fact, he closed his eyes and settled back to enjoy the preening. 

“What scene were you rehearsing when we came in?” John asked eventually, not opening his eyes. He looked like he was ready to melt into his chair from contentment. 

“Oh, the…” Sherlock’s mind raced as he tried to remember anything about the play. Every fold in his brain seemed entirely focused on the feeling of silken strands of hair gliding over his fingertips and cataloguing those sensations away for permanent storage. “The ballroom scene. And I’m having trouble keeping my Georg from turning into. Well. Into you.”

“Me?” John cracked an eyelid curiously.

“A military officer with strong principals, a temper, extreme bravery, and adorable children.” 

“Looks pretty good in uniform, too.” 

“We  _ are  _ terribly attractive people, aren’t we?” Sherlock snickered. His thumb began to massage the back of John’s neck as he spoke. “Every time Georg addresses one of the officers or the delivery boy, I can’t help but think about you pulling rank and issuing orders. It always comes out so very John.” 

With his eyes closed again, John tipped his head to one side to give Sherlock the hint to massage a new spot. Between the ice pack and the almost expert fingers working away the tight muscles, he felt as if the impact with a stranger's chest had never happened. He didn’t want to say that though, in case Sherlock took the wrong hint and stopped touching him. “Has the director complained about it?” 

John hadn’t been able to attend the last few rehearsals. A doctor he sometimes covered shifts for had broken her wrist and for the last week and a half he had been taking on her patients. He missed watching his pair work, but he could never turn down an opportunity to increase their savings. He trusted Sherlock to keep Rosie safe when he wasn’t there, and the threats toward their client hadn’t escalated beyond sinister phone calls since the last attack on her wardrobe. If John noticed that Sherlock’s attention had been anywhere other than Gloria’s complaints, he kept it to himself. 

“No, he thinks I’m bringing real life to the role.” Sherlock moved to sit on the arm of the chair and used his knuckles to work away some of the tension across John’s clavicle. He was careful not to press too deeply, but he could feel the rod and pins that held the bone together and the lumpy callus on the front where the shards had healed into a calcified knot. John wasn’t as ashamed of his injury as he had once been, but it was still tantalisingly rare to catch a glimpse of it after a shower or workout. He was teased for being morbid, wanting to see a ragged, poorly stitched scar, but Sherlock blamed sentimentality. Without his injury, John never would have been put in his path. Another way their lives could have been dragged in different directions from each other. 

“So you get to do your character research at home. What’s the problem with the scene, then?” 

Sherlock finally drew his hand away, but stayed where he was seated. He stretched his arm over the back of the chair and shrugged. “I haven’t had much opportunity to practice the choreography with Miss Sunchild. I can do it easily with Anna because she’s not much shorter than I am.” He hadn’t expected for that to come out of his mouth. 

“Without those mad wedges she wears, Gloria’s what? Five four, five five? Practice with me.” 

He  _ definitely  _ hadn’t expected for that to come out of John’s mouth. 

“Funny, John.”

“No, I’m serious.” To prove it, John put the ice pack on the cushion and stood up. “If you can teach me to waltz, you can teach me this one. And you get to lead this time, don’t you?” 

“It’s a bit more complicated than a waltz. Even a Viennese one is just the dance equivalent of being on a carousel. Up, down, round and round.” Even while he tried to protest, Sherlock rose and followed John away from the chairs. “There’s footwork involved.” 

Hefting the coffee table off the floor, John set it on its side on the sofa to clear a space on the carpet. “Remind me to show you one of the Highland dances I had to do back for my first visit home from Uni when Harry twisted her ankle and I was the only one who could fit into her costume last minute.”

Sherlock’s response was delayed while his mind lagged. John’s back muscles, softened slightly with domestication, had flexed and moved under his tight shirt as he lifted the table in a reminder that just under the layer of extra padding he was as strong and fit as ever. “That’s as may-” His voice cracked and came out as a squawk. “Hnn. This is not quite a children’s jig.”

John cast a look over his shoulder with his most rakish, crooked smile. “Have you ever seen a competitive _Ghillie Callum_ , Sherlock? It’s done with swords. Put a foot wrong, and you’ll lose it.” 

“If you could pull that off, why did you have so much trouble with ballroom?” 

“It’s in the blood, I suppose.” John rubbed his toes over the carpet to make sure there was nothing they could trip over. “I can’t find a rhythm unless there’s a banshee wail of a bagpipe drowning out all thought, and a kilt flapping around my arse.” 

It was impossible for his imagination not to wander with that so Sherlock allowed himself the reminder of the customs that came with wearing a traditional kilt. 

John, having gotten much better at reading Sherlock’s mind lately, felt a quick rush of pride at the colour that was filling his friend’s cheeks. 

He had been getting much better at a lot of things, in fact. If he’d known how comfortable he would feel with his acceptance of certain aspects of himself, he might not have fought it for so long. 

As fun as it was to flirt and tease like they normally did, John found he was disappointed when it came time to put an end to it for fear of crossing the line they’d never allowed themselves to step over before. That line had moved so many times over the years to accommodate the changes between them and the different truths they allowed themselves to admit. Even if they couldn’t admit it out loud.

Yet.

“We start like this, right?” John slid his hand into Sherlock’s and held it up so they could move like they were on a particularly graceful stroll across the living room. 

“I’m supposed to lead, remember?” Sherlock stopped them just shy of the kitchen and took John’s other hand. “I feel like a duck doing this part.” His legs were so long compared to John’s, and his costar’s, that he felt he needed to bring himself up short as they side-skipped in the other direction. His movements were jerky and stuttered. 

“More like a wind up toy. Try to put an extra movement into it to keep in time with me. Like this,” John added a bob with his step, bending his knees to lower himself a few inches before rising up into the next skip. “Go again?” 

They moved back to the window so they could start once more. Sherlock hummed the music softly and put John’s suggestion into action. By dropping himself to be eye-level with his partner it slowed his movement just enough that they took each step in perfect harmony. 

The overhead spin was far from harmonious. Sherlock twirled too fast, John couldn’t reach high enough to follow or keep up the pace so that Sherlock ended up with his back to John’s chest and their fingers tangled in front of his neck. Snorting, John pressed his face between Sherlock’s shoulder blades and dropped his hands to his stomach. “I think we need to do that one faster.” 

It took three attempts before John was able to spin without fumbling it, or putting his shoulder at risk of a dislocation. By the time they moved into the next steps, he was dizzy and leaning heavily on Sherlock while he laughed.

A creak sounded from the baby monitor and Sherlock put his knuckles to his lips to muffle his own laughter. “She was just turning over,” he said in a whisper when the monitor fell silent again. “Where were we?” 

“I believe you’re meant to be clapping while I swish my skirts,” John mimed gathering the folds of a ball gown around his hips and flicking them from side to side before they both had to shush the other like a pair of teenagers trying to keep from being caught. Holding Sherlock out at arm’s length, John shook his head. “Let’s try to be serious. Start over?” 

John wasn’t sure when Sherlock stopped humming the music or counting the beat for him. He only noticed when their bodies pressed together and he couldn’t feel the low rumble in Sherlock’s chest. It didn’t matter now if his feet were placed wrong or if he turned right when he was meant to go left, Sherlock had begun to perfect the dance. 

It was like when he was focused entirely on the strained notes of his violin or carefully dripping solutions from the trembling end of a glass pipette. His eyes had a faraway look that was different from the frantic madness he got from the thrill of a chase. Sherlock looked peaceful when he danced. Content. In a way John had only seen when he was performing instead of working. 

A lifetime ago, Mycroft had told him that Sherlock had it in him to be a philosopher or a scientist. John saw an artist. He was meant to create. A beautiful concerto or a one-of-a-kind waltz or spun sugar, Sherlock made art with everything around him. He was shown the hardest, most cruel aspects of life and he turned around to murmur poems to a flower or admire the delicate intricacies in a snowflake before it melted away. 

And he made John want to be a better person. To deserve to see all those sides of him that he kept hidden behind a mask of unfeeling distance, or be the one to soften the sharp edges he protected himself with. 

About the same time he stopped humming, Sherlock had stopped watching their feet and was gazing into John’s eyes the way his character was meant to. John was endlessly fascinated with Sherlock’s eyes. He hadn’t seen the sting of hurt in them in so long. The lines around them were from laughter now, sometimes from a close escape during a case, but more often from a shared joke, an outburst from Rosie, a happy surprise. His moods were infectious and John found himself laughing more and more recently, sharing in Sherlock’s happiness the way he had once shared in his lowest drops. 

That, more than anything, told John volumes. When Sherlock was happy, he was. When he was depressed, he would stare moodily into his coffee. Excited, irritable, frustrated, delighted, Sherlock made him feel it all along with him in a way no one else had ever done. 

They spun, arms bent at the elbow, hands palm to palm. 

Sherlock slowly lowered his other hand and brought them to a stop. 

And waited. 

“John,” he said softly. “You’re meant to pull away now.” 

Shaking his head, John stroked his thumb over the inside of Sherlock’s wrist. “No.” 

“Yes, you are. It’s the end of the dance. Maria’s meant to say-” 

“No, Sherlock. Me. I’m not pulling away.” John had hoped it would come out as firm. Passionate. It came out high, giggly, and a little out of breath. “I am sick of pulling away from you. I’ve been doing it for too long.” He circled his fingers and thumb around Sherlock’s wrist and drew them down his hand to hold his fingers. After considering them for a moment, he brought them to his lips, kissing the back of each knuckle. “We both have. I’m not going to pretend to know what you’ve been thinking, I’ve never been as good at it as you, but I can see that much.” He turned Sherlock’s hand over to kiss the pad of each fingertip. They were callused and rough from the strings of his violin and the more poetic part of John’s brain insisted it could taste the musical notes on them. “Sometimes it’s been for the best, but not anymore. There’s no reason for it.” Through thick golden lashes, John looked up at Sherlock to try to gauge his reaction. 

The least poetic part of his brain insisted he looked like he’d been smacked with a lake trout. 

Sherlock’s mouth worked wetly for a moment and his sharp cheeks turned a dashing shade of pink, while his chest rose and fell dramatically like he belonged on the cover of a romance novel. Because he’d forgotten to breathe for the last thirty-nine seconds and his lungs were trying to get things moving again on their own without his brain’s cooperation. A noise like a cross between a dial-up tone and an alarmed duck stumbled out of his full, lush lips. 

“Hnranghk.” His eyes shot wide and he inhaled deeply through his nostrils to the delight of his eager lungs, and he tried again. “No reason.” It was more of a statement than a question, as if he was trying to pick it apart for hidden meanings. “No reason to pull away.” 

“No reason to play pretend,” John agreed, his lips still against Sherlock’s fingers. “I’m done acting like this isn’t what I want.” 

“It’s not? I mean. It is? It’s what you want? With me?” John’s lips were so soft. 

“Very much, Sherlock.” 

“Could- That is. Would you. If you want to. Will you kiss me? More than just my hand.” 

He didn’t know why he thought John’s lips were soft. They were smooth, yes. Like silk. But they were firm, and strong, and confident, and the hand in his hair that pulled him down sent shivers down his spine as blunt nails grazed over his scalp. For a moment, it was all Sherlock could do to just hold on. 

When John pulled away, it was with a grin. “Fucking  _ finally. _ I thought I’d never get the chance to do that.” 

Sherlock groaned and clutched at John’s shoulders to drag him back in for another kiss. He was clumsy, bumping his nose into John’s cheek and getting more of his top lip and almost becoming distracted by the sensation of moustache stubble. 

“Hey, hey. Easy. We’re not in any rush.” John cupped the side of Sherlock’s face to guide him more gently. 

“Except that we are,” Sherlock explained when he broke for air and kissed a line down the side of John’s throat. “Any moment a client is going to rush in. Or the smoke alarm will go off. Or Lestrade is going to need us. Or-”

Cradling the back of Sherlock’s head, John held him close, pressing his lips to his temple. “I’m not going to change my mind,” he assured him. “If that’s what you’re worried about. Me coming to my senses or something.” 

The held tension drained out of Sherlock and he rested his forehead against John’s neck. “Do you promise?” he asked, his voice muffled by the other’s shirt. 

John craned his head back and used his chin to nudge Sherlock up to look him in the eye. “On my honour as an officer and a gentleman.” 

For the second time in just a few minutes, Sherlock croaked out an almost word while his cheeks flamed. He twisted his fingers into the back of John’s top and gnawed on his bottom lip. 

“Really, Sherlock?” John’s brows shot up in amusement. “That’s what gets you going?” 

Sherlock scowled and tugged John closer. “As if you don’t have a type, too,” he muttered. 

“Oh, you mean someone tall?” drawled John as he stepped forward, coaxing Sherlock back a pace. “Intelligent?” His hands slipped under the hem of Sherlock’s shirt to caress the arch of his spine. “Confident, and reckless, and beautiful, and soft all at once?” He travelled south, dipping under the waistband of his jeans to cup Sherlock’s full, round arse through his thin pants. His thumbs hooked under the elastic to give them a teasing little pull. “With a rump that belongs on a billboard?” 

With each trait he extolled, John moved them back another step until Sherlock’s calves hit the cushion of John’s chair. He sat with a grunt, John’s hands pulling free of his pants to hike his shirt up around his armpits. John knelt on the edge of the chair with one knee between Sherlock’s thighs, pressing with gentle firmness against his groin as he slid his fingers through messy dark hair. “Although, you don’t seem particularly soft right now.” 

Head falling back against the chair, Sherlock rocked his hips up against John’s knee and gripped his sides to hold him in place. He wanted to admire and memorise every expression on his friend’s face, but his eyes wouldn’t stop fluttering closed in desire. John’s leg was strong and firm, and if he didn’t stop rutting soon, he was going to humiliate himself right there in a wet stain against his trouser front. Sherlock couldn’t recall if he’d ever been so responsive before, or if John just knew exactly where and when and how to touch him, but when his shirt was pulled off and away and rough thumb pads swiped over his nipples, he bucked up off his seat and his nails dug in where he was holding John. 

“Come here,” John ordered in a loving whisper, reaching under Sherlock to grip his thighs and lift him to his feet. He didn’t stop there. With a soft groan of effort, he boosted Sherlock off the floor and guided his legs around his waist. He widened his stance to take the extra weight and held him by the hips to keep them balanced. 

“Put me down, you maniac,” Sherlock laughed, pressing his mouth to John’s hair to keep from making too much noise and waking the household as John walked them through the kitchen. “You’re going to throw your back out. Or drop me. Or both. Someone will have to come rescue us while we sprawl out with concussions.” 

Setting Sherlock on the edge of the kitchen table, carefully away from a stack of case notes and colouring books, John leaned back. Colour was riding high on Sherlock’s cheeks and his eyes were dancing. “I could have made it to the bedroom,” he insisted, pressing between Sherlock’s spread thighs again. 

It wasn’t just Sherlock who was hard now. John’s pyjama bottoms tented out, the drawstring straining to keep the waistband closed. “May I?” Sherlock whispered, his palm sliding down John’s chest and belly, stopping just at the hem of his shirt. At John’s nod, he wrapped his fingers around the length through the soft cloth. 

They both bit out a curse. 

No matter how often he’d thought about this, trying to deduce what it would feel like, how he would respond, what he would say or do or think, none of it had properly prepared John for that first touch. Sherlock’s fingers were slender and strong, and even through the cloth, holding him still, John had to grab the table to keep from thrusting forward. He knew well enough by now that Sherlock was logging away details and wouldn’t want to be interrupted by silly things like movement or semen splashing over his wrist yet. 

“Interesting,” Sherlock finally whispered, giving John an experimental squeeze before pulling the drawstring loose to ease the waistband under the erection so he could see it properly. “I never imagined these sorts of proportions.” His voice was rough and thick despite his attempts to keep it level and calm, and his thighs trembled as he lifted his knees higher to lock around John’s torso and hold him in place. “Seeing the soft outline is one thing, but in its full glory. Goodness.” His own trouser front bobbed for attention. “Elev-” Licking his lips, Sherlock swallowed heavily and gave it another try. “Eleven and… A half centimetres, just behind the head.” He twirled his index finger behind the glans and eased the foreskin back to expose the glossy, dark pink head. A clean, almost pollen-like scent came off of it which grew stronger as he let the foreskin slip into place and slid it back again until a healthy dollop of pre-ejaculate began to form. Letting go, he continued his exploration. “Fully fourteen centimetres at the thickest part. With a likelihood of swelling another centimetre in the moments before an orgasm.” By now, Sherlock was resting his forehead against John’s for support and he needed to stop every few words to let a shudder of pleasure rock through his body. His chest was rising and falling in quick gasps. He followed a pulsing vein on the underside to John’s sac. 

He was intrigued to discover that John kept himself neatly trimmed. His light brown hair was straight and clipped short while his bollocks were smooth. The lack of stubble after a whole day suggested he used a hair removal cream instead of a razor. Sherlock began to trail his fingers along the shaft once more, then stopped at the base. He hummed curiously and used his index and middle fingers to press on either side of the ridge ahead of the point where the shaft met the sac until he was certain of what he was feeling. Two tiny circular scars in the slightly loose skin. “You had a frenum piercing?” 

John’s bollocks tucked up against his groin for a moment as he swallowed. He rolled his shoulder bashfully. “I was in Uni. I was going through a phase. Had my tongue done, too. I had to take it out when I started playing for Blackheath. Didn’t want to get it yanked out in the middle of a scrum.” 

As Sherlock’s imagination provided him with the impossible scenario of John the punk and John the jock fighting for his affections in a flurry of striped jerseys and torn jeans and thick soled boots while John the soldier watched on to await his turn, he squeezed his hand around John’s cock until it was jumping in his fist. “Christ, John. I feel like Pygmalion,” he murmured adoringly. “Except instead of marble, I was just pasting together pieces of all the filthy magazines I had stashed under my mattress.” 

With a bark of laughter, John cupped Sherlock’s face to kiss him soundly. “We’ll have to go through some of those magazines one day,” he said, moving back. Sherlock’s grip around his shaft meant he had to either let go, or follow. 

Sherlock hopped off the table to be led down the hall to his bedroom door. 

John pushed it open with his foot, his hands busy working on Sherlock’s trousers to be of much use. “I hate men’s jeans,” he snapped when the button finally popped free. “Everything’s backwards, and there’s no stretch.” As much as he wanted to yank the zip down, John knew from pained experience that it would bring everything to a halt if the metal teeth snagged on anything important. “There we go,” he said with a satisfied grin, shoving back the denim enough to push the waistband down where it tucked under Sherlock’s arse. 

Much like John’s softened middle, Sherlock’s rump was a testament to the recent years of happy home life and stubborn care taking. It had always been on the full side, but now John cupped each cheek to revel in all its soft, plump perfection. His fingers left imprints behind, and his nails gently dimpled the skin. “You’re not allowed to wear your coat on cases anymore,” John laughed, working Sherlock’s pants down his hips. “Not when this beauty could be bouncing in front of me when we run.” 

The waistband of the pants caught on Sherlock’s erection, pulling it flush to his thighs until it snapped free to bob against his abdomen. Released, it nodded eagerly until John cradled the underside in his palm while Sherlock kicked his clothes the rest of the way off. 

John’s examination wasn’t as calculating, but he was just as earnest in his admiration of Sherlock’s body. The cock in his hand was longer than his own by a finger’s width, but more slender. It curved in a delicate arc up from the base, drawing Sherlock’s bollocks forward so they hung freely in front of his thighs. A dusting of freckles were scattered along the length, and John wondered idly when it might have been exposed to the sunshine long enough for them to become so prominent the way Sherlock’s cheeks and shoulders came out with them after a day at the seaside. “You are so gorgeous,” John breathed out roughly and took another few steps back to lead Sherlock to the bed by his grip around his prick. Before he reached it, he shed his shirt and wriggled the rest of the way out of his pyjama bottoms, almost tripping over them. 

Sherlock finally released his hold and helped John with his clothes so they could make it to the bed in one piece. He hastily brushed biscuit crumbs off the sheets, threw the duvet to the floor and blanched when he found a pair of old socks and a book crammed down between the mattress and the footboard. “I swear,” he said, patting out the wrinkles from the sheet and fluffing up his pillows. “If I’d known this was going to happen tonight, I would have tidied.” He scuttled around on his hands and knees trying to neaten the bedding then froze when John grabbed him by the hips from behind. 

“I’d rather have my knees scraped up by crumbs, or wind up with your violin bow poking me in the arse, than put this off for another night while we drag out the steam cleaner and industrial strength disinfectant.” John smoothed his hands over Sherlock’s sides as he leaned over him to kiss between his shoulder blades. 

The weight on his back was unexpected and Sherlock groaned low in his throat, dropping his shoulders to press his forehead into one of his pillows. He twisted around onto his side slowly enough that John was able to support himself. “But it’s meant to be perfect. You deserve perfect.” It occurred to Sherlock that he hadn’t brushed his teeth since that morning, that his deodorant had probably long since worn off, and that his legs were now angled in entirely the wrong direction; his pillow was covering half of his face, and the last time he’d had any sort of preparation for penetration had been before his last prostate exam. Considering that had ended with a supply tray being knocked to the ground, the sterile table covering being bitten through, and the patiently understanding urologist almost having his fingers broken by how hard he had clenched, Sherlock’s mind raced to show him all the disastrous ways this might end for them both. 

“What about this do you think isn’t perfect?” John pushed himself to his knees so he could reposition Sherlock’s long legs, and adjusted the pillow to tuck it under his head. He shifted from side to side to settle between the other’s thighs and rocked his hips forward until his cock slid agonisingly slowly over Sherlock’s. 

“Oh,” Sherlock whispered, his hands twisting into the bedding. His feet dangled in the air for a moment before finding a spot to rest on John’s back for purchase so he could rise up to meet the next long thrust. 

It was nothing like he had imagined it would be. No matter how many different scenarios he’d allowed himself to play with in the quiet privacy of his mind, none of them had been like this. Just over John’s head, the ceiling light was creating a glowing nimbus that haloed him one moment, then glared into Sherlock’s eyes the next as they moved together. The bed thumped more than it creaked, the frame knocking against the wall in a staccato rhythm when they began to pick up their pace. Instead of caressing his partner with expert touches designed to bring him to the brink, Sherlock’s hands fluttered about, looking for anything to hold onto to keep from floating away. He clutched at the sheets, at John’s thighs, at his own mouth, at their eager members grinding together between them. 

What his imagination could never have prepared him for was John’s response. He praised him through bared teeth, mixing sweet endearments with lewd curses. He sucked livid bruises into his flushed skin then kissed them tenderly. Sherlock would be marked as his for days to come, he told him, skimming his teeth over his ribs. As they climbed higher to the peak, John rested his forehead on Sherlock’s, their breath mingled after each deep and promising kiss. 

Just as his vision swirled and he felt the coiled tension in his body reach the tipping point, Sherlock felt John’s body shudder against his own and hot semen pulsed out over his belly and up his chest. John snarled against his lips, reaching down to coax him over the edge to join him. He’d been wound so tightly that his release bowed his spine off the bed, his legs locking firmly around John until he felt his knees protest, and a thick dollop of come struck his chin. He couldn’t say what nonsense he babbled, only that it made John chuckle proudly before he lapped the mess that was tantalisingly close to his lips while his body tensed every few seconds as another wave of relief washed through him. 

By the time his eyes cooperated and brought the world back into focus, Sherlock was limp and useless against the pillows, his arms flung wide and his legs bent and spread like a dropped doll. He couldn’t lift his hand to help John wipe him clean, and was wracked with soft peals of giggles. “I think I understand why people say they’ve had their brains fucked out,” he panted, stopping every few words to catch his breath after another bout of laughter. Sherlock pointed at his temple then mimed an explosion of fireworks with his fingers before letting his hand fall next to his head. “Brain. Gone.” He furrowed his sweaty brow when John rolled off the edge of the bed and stood up. “John gone?” 

“John clean,” he replied with a grin, shuffling to the bathroom to gather a damp flannel. Sitting on the edge of the bed, John stroked it over Sherlock’s chest and stomach. He was careful washing his groin, knowing how sensitive he would still be. “You sure know how to stroke a bloke’s ego,” murmured John, ducking his head to plant a kiss on one of the love bites he’d left behind. “I never thought you’d… Well, that you’d be as worked up about it as I was.” 

Sherlock tried to flap his hand, but he was so wrung out that it simply lifted off the pillow for a second before collapsing again. “Acting isn’t the only thing I haven’t done since Uni,” he explained with a shaky grin. 

“Well!” John went to toss the cloth into the bathroom sink and turn out the lights. He crawled back into the bed, dragging the duvet with him to tuck around them both. Brushing Sherlock’s tangled hair away from his eyes, he kissed him gently. “This will just have to be another thing we can rehearse together.” 


	8. Second Act Problems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after, John and Sherlock experiment with their new roles in each other's lives. Post-coital bliss is disrupted by the news that Gloria's stalker has begun to target her at home and in public. Will Sherlock be able to act before they make good on their threats?

They had stayed up for several hours, discussing their relationship histories, lazily kissing, laughing, and eventually falling asleep sharing a pillow. 

It was the middle of the night when Sherlock awoke with a start. He was surprised to find that John was still there next to him, one arm thrown carelessly above his head, the other bent to have a hand on Sherlock’s hip even in sleep. Blinking slowly, Sherlock propped himself up on his elbow to look down at his friend. Or whatever title he might want to carry now. 

He trailed his fingertips over John’s chest, a sharp thrill running up his spine at the thought that he was allowed to do this. He wanted to shout to wake the neighbours, gloating that he was allowed to touch and caress and kiss and be held in turn by John Watson. That John was in his bed, wearing a satisfied expression and yesterday’s socks. Leaning down, Sherlock brushed his lips against John’s shoulder with a sigh then nestled against him to try to go back to sleep. 

The noise which had woken him sounded again. The baby monitor crackling followed by a pitiful little whimper. Sherlock’s eyes snapped open again just before he heard Rosie scream for John. With a quick glance at the clock, he saw that it was a few minutes past three. 

“Early tonight,” he mumbled, sitting up. When John stirred, he put a hand to his chest. “I can handle it. Go back to sleep.” 

When John grunted something that sounded like an agreement, Sherlock slid from under the covers to find a pair of pyjamas. He wrapped his purple dressing gown around himself and headed upstairs. 

Rosie’s bedroom was at the front of the flat so the lights from the street streamed in through the windows when the curtains were open. Even with the street lamps on, Rosie had pressed each of the button lights around her bed, the moon and star shapes glowing pink and blue on the walls. The girl was sitting up in bed clutching her cuddle puppy with tears bright in her eyes. “There’s someone under the bed!” she sobbed to Sherlock and held her hands out to him, not questioning why he had come to her aid instead of her father. 

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Sherlock smoothed her hair and rubbed her back. “Look at Porridge. Does she seem frightened?” 

One corner of the bedroom was taken up by an enclosure that John had put together with lengths of wood and coated chicken wire while complaining that it was better furnished than his old bedsit. It had a cosy hutch which Porridge burrowed into during the winter, but on that humid summer night the rabbit was sprawled on her side in her digging tray letting out the occasional grunt of contentment. 

“I…” Rosie sucked in a shaky breath and scrubbed at her eyes. “I guess not. But she might not hear it. The monster under the bed. He’s right under my bed,” she whispered, pushing her face against Sherlock’s chest and covering her ears. “He won’t stop talking.” 

For a moment Sherlock considered giving her a logical talking-to, explaining that the flat creaked and made noises and that they were easy to mistake for other sounds. But he knew that if Rosie were to make up a story, it would be far more fantastical than incessant voices interrupting her sleep. “All right, Watson,” he sighed and used the cuff of his dressing gown to wipe her cheeks and nose. “Let’s investigate.” 

Realising that she was being taken seriously, Rosie lifted her chin bravely. “‘M your assistant this time,” she said, climbing down from his lap. Suddenly, her eyes went wider. “There! That’s him. Did you hear him?” 

“I did not, but your ears are much better than mine are. Children have stronger hearing than us old men. Something to do with the cilia that directs noise in your ears being less damaged than ours.” Sherlock groaned as he stretched out onto his front on the floor and tried to squirm his way under Rosie’s bed. He used his toes to push himself forward, his shoulders wedged against the frame. He tried not to be jealous when Rosie wriggled in next to him with ease. 

“I can’t hear what he’s saying, but I hear- There!” she whisper-yelled again, pushing a box of puzzles out of the way. “He’s talking again.” Her voice was wobbly, and she reached over to hold Sherlock’s arm. 

“I don’t hear… Wait.” Sherlock turned his head when he heard the faintest of voices. “I think I do.” He moved a stack of books, revealing the air vent. With it exposed, the voice was more clear. In fact, there were several voices, and they were being cut out every couple of seconds, changing for new sounds. “Well, Watson,” Sherlock turned to her and bumped his forehead against hers. “I think we’ve discovered the Secret of the Shushed Voices. Do you see this vent?” 

“Uh huh?”

“It must be connected to other flats on this block. Someone is watching television, and you can hear them changing the channels.”

“It’s not… No one’s under my bed?” 

“Just their voices echoing in the air ducts. Here, you can feel air moving from it. That’s what is carrying the sound.” Sherlock hummed as he tried to drag himself back out from under the bed. It was far from graceful and he smacked his skull against the wooden slats holding up the mattress. He swallowed a curse and sat up, rubbing the back of his head. “One of the neighbours must be working nights, and is turning the telly on when they get home. That’s why it wakes you up at the same time each night. Daddy and I will move your bed to the other side of the room tomorrow, so you don’t hear it.” 

“You promise it’s just the neighbour?” Rosie crawled out from under the bed and sat cross legged on the floor, hugging the puppy toy to her chest. “No one’s really under there?” She knew that Sherlock never lied to her, even when a lie might be more comforting than the truth. Her father might tell her white lies to ease her worries, but the blunt truth made more sense to her, especially when Sherlock explained things in plain words for her to understand. If he said that the voices were from an air vent, she believed it. Believing that they weren’t dangerous or frightening was something else entirely. “What if they come up out of the vent?” she asked, her voice tiny. 

About to insist that nothing could climb out of the air ducts, Sherlock remembered an incident with an escaped -and very distressed- Burmese python that a client had been convinced was a venomous viper sent by an assassin the year before. He reached out and tucked his hands under Rosie’s arms to lift her up to his chest. “If anything comes out of the vents, I’ll be here, armed with a broom to chase it back again.” It had not gone so smoothly with the client, to be fair. Sherlock had bellowed in a panic and tried to climb the bookcase while John coaxed the frightened snake into a pillow case. “And now you know what the sound is, you’ll be able to ignore it more easily.” 

With creaking knees, Sherlock hauled himself to his feet and shook back the blankets so he could tuck Rosie in. He pressed the lights to turn off all but one, leaving a pink star on to cast a gentle, soothing glow over the bedroom. Sitting again on the edge of the bed, he rubbed her back in slow circles. “Rest your head, little girl blue,” he sang softly, combing his fingers through the mess of thick blonde hair that had come free of its night time braids. “Come paint your dreams on your pillow.” 

Rosie hid her face against a pattern of leaping dolphins with her puppy tucked under her chin. She kicked at the heavier blanket and pulled the matching sheet up around her ears before closing her eyes to focus on Sherlock’s voice. He had sung to her so many times before, her earliest memories were of his lullabies and his smiling face. 

“I’ll be near, to chase away fear.” 

Sherlock never lied to her. If he said she was safe, she was. She could trust that no one was going to crawl from under the floorboards and drag her away from her family. And if someone dared to try, they would be there to pull her back to safety. 

“So sleep now, and dream til tomorrow.” 

Tucking her knees up to her chest, Rosie snuggled deeper into her pillow. 

“Goodnight, little Watson.” Sherlock bent over her to press a kiss to her cheek. 

“Ni-night, Papa,” she mumbled, already slipping into sleep. 

She was so tired and worn out that she didn’t realise what she was saying. Or she had her lines from the play taking over. She didn’t know that she said it. She was just trying to be sweet. She couldn’t know what it meant to Sherlock. 

“She loves you.” 

Sherlock flailed and swore, nearly toppling off the bed. “How long have you been there?” he hissed. 

John shrugged his good shoulder, the other resting against the door frame. He was wrapped up in one of Sherlock’s rattier dressing gowns, the sleeves pushed back to his wrists and the hem hiked up so it didn’t drag on the floor. “Since you enlisted me to move her bed.” He reached out and beckoned to Sherlock. “I should have checked for the air vent. I thought she was just worked up.”

Patting the sheet gently to make sure Rosie still slept, Sherlock stood and tucked his hand into John’s. “It was just the logical step. Even if I didn’t find anything, it would have helped her to know I was investigating.” 

“You’re a natural.” John left the door ajar and tugged Sherlock against his chest. In the brighter light in the hall, he could see that he looked like he had been hit in the gut, the wind knocked out of him. Chuckling, he cradled the side of Sherlock’s head and brushed his thumb over his cheek. “You’ve been one of the few constants in her life. Even before she was born, you were doing research to learn how to keep her safe and give her the best possible childhood. There’s a reason her first steps were toward you.”

“I was just closer,” Sherlock argued, chewing on his bottom lip. 

“You’re as much her father as I am. Since the day we moved back in here, you’ve been right there getting your hands dirty and being a parent.”

“It was the best way to-” He let go of his lip and sighed, pressing his face into John’s hand. “You’re not angry?”

“That she loves you as much as I do? Not at all.” John pulled Sherlock down to peck a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Just promise you won’t gang up on me too often. Come on, let’s go back to bed. I’ve got a nice little divot in your mattress going and I’d like to keep working on it.” 

Sherlock’s mind was shrieking with delight and his body moved on autopilot, following John back down the stairs to his bedroom. His usual self doubt and anxiety couldn’t pipe up loud enough to drown out the words repeating over and over in his head. 

_ As much as I do. _

  
  
  


When a more reasonable hour of the morning found Sherlock stretching languidly on his sheets, he felt properly rested. His stomach muscles were pleasantly sore from the night’s exertions, an unfamiliar sensation that he charted away to explore later when he was alone. He put his hands on the headboard and pressed to work out the kinks from his back and shoulders then glanced to the other side of the bed. 

“Good morning, sunshine,” John was propped up on his elbow, his head resting on his fist and a sleepy grin on his face. 

Groaning, Sherlock pulled the sheet over his head. “Of course this would be the one day of the year that you’re a morning person,” he croaked and carded his fingers through his hair to try to deal with the knotted mess. “It usually takes a foghorn to wake you up. What time is it, anyway? Six?”

“Half nine.” A hand sneaked under the covers to rest on Sherlock’s chest, fingers drumming gently. “I thought I was going to have to set an alarm to get you up. I’ve already made breakfast for Rosie and set her up with her script and some crayons with Mrs H. When I came back in, they were talking about going to the shop.” John grabbed the edge of the sheet and lifted it up to the headboard to make a little tent. “And you were snoring away like a foghorn yourself,” he chuckled, leaning over Sherlock and kissing his shoulder. 

“I do not snore!” 

“Mmhm,” he said in a quiet murmur, kissing a line to Sherlock’s sternum. It was a feeling he would have to get used to again, the rough tickle of chest hair under his lips. John’s experience with men wasn’t as varied as it was with women, and while he wasn’t in denial the way he had once been, it would still take time to get accustomed to the differences. Even so, it might be a firm pectoral instead of a soft breast, but the gasping response when he dragged his teeth gently over a peaked nipple was the same, if only with a deeper timbre. John smirked and twirled his tongue then pulled off slowly. “You do. I thought you were going to inhale your pillow.” 

Sherlock was torn between shoving John off, and arching up into his kisses. He settled for burying his fingers into his hair and coaxing him back down to his chest. “Well you smack your lips in your sleep.” He sank into his pillow and shifted to get comfortable. John began to kiss lower and lower until he reached his belly and Sherlock bit his lip in anticipation. 

John dipped his tongue into Sherlock’s navel. “Snoring was the least of it with you.” He brushed his nose over soft skin and hummed happily. 

“Liar,”

“Nope,” John shifted to tuck his elbows under himself to support his weight. “I’m amazed it didn’t wake you up. It was like-” He pressed his face into Sherlock’s belly and blew a long, crude raspberry. 

No one had ever  _ played  _ with him before. His few, very few, past lovers had been almost clinical. Efficient. They had gotten the job done, and not taken it any further. Even the times they had spent the night with him, there had been no real affection between them after the act. It was just as much on his part as theirs, not knowing how to ask for what he wanted, even if he’d known what it was. 

Now he knew. Someone who would laugh with him. Tease him and expect to be teased in return. Someone who cared about how he was enjoying himself in every aspect of their lovemaking, beyond the physical responses. A complete madman who would make him gasp for breath between peals of laughter and moans of pleasure. 

John. Of course, John. Who had brought joy and delight and play into his life from the very beginning. His complete madman. 

With another quick raspberry to one of Sherlock’s thighs, John swatted him on the rump before tossing the sheet back for air. “Let’s get some breakfast into you, yeah?” 

“You’re a bloody tease, John Watson.” 

“As much as I’d love to spend the next week in bed with you,” John sat up on his heels and laced his fingers together to stretch his arms over his head. Something in his back popped and he rolled his head from side to side. “And trust me, I would. I don’t think it would be good for either of us to starve to death during round three.” He dropped his hands again then reached out to stroke a fingertip under Sherlock’s chin, coaxing him up until their lips almost met. “Besides,” he rumbled, a heat in his voice that made Sherlock weak. “We  _ really  _ need to brush our teeth.” 

Sherlock collapsed back on his pillow and covered his face with his hands. The bed creaked and the mattress sank to one side as John shuffled over to climb out. Parting his fingers, Sherlock watched him walk naked to the chair where his pyjamas from the night before were folded. There was something so intimate about seeing him standing bare, trying to suss out which way out his shirt was meant to be while his bottoms were draped over one arm. His cock was thick and hard, but not erect. There were four scored marks on one hip, scratches from the night before that Sherlock hadn’t even realised he’d dug into his skin. 

He could have lain there admiring him all morning. But his stomach growled its presence and he admitted to himself that yes, starvation would decidedly spoil the mood. With a huff, Sherlock rolled out of bed and followed John out of the bedroom while pulling on his dressing gown. 

“There’s some pancake batter left over. Want them as is, or mix in some fruit?” 

“I managed to sleep through you making pancakes? Fruit, please.“ 

John pressed the home button on Sherlock’s phone which had been sitting on the kitchen table all night. “Through pancakes, the kettle boiling, and four texts from our client.” He pushed the phone across the table to Sherlock and got to work slicing a banana into the batter. “What’s she have to say?” 

_ Mr holmes sum1 sent me a letter. To my house this time! -11:27 pm _

_ Did u get that? -12:03 am _

_ Plz respond -12:09 am _

_ Im coming to ur flat. I need 2c u. Will b there at noon. -8:49am _

“It looks like we have a new development. She’s being harassed through the post at home.” Sherlock sent her a reply to confirm the appointment. “So far everything has been confined to the theatre and messages to her phone. Our stalker has been able to find out her address.” 

“So, someone close to her. Or someone who can bribe someone close to her. Agent, maybe?” John tipped a cooked pancake onto a plate to hand to Sherlock. “Or her publicist?” 

Sherlock frowned as he poked at the food. “Perhaps. I’ll have to do some digging into their backgrounds. See who stands to gain financially. Damn.” He tore the pancake into pieces to eat with his fingers despite John’s cluck. “I could have sworn I just had it. Like it’s right here-” he waved one hand just beyond his peripheral vision. “And if I turn fast enough, I’ll catch it. I just haven't been fast enough” 

John rounded the table and pushed Sherlock’s hair back from his forehead to kiss it. “You’ll figure it out. She’s never isolated, so whoever is threatening her doesn’t have the chance to act without witnesses and people to stop them. She’ll survive a few torn up coats.” Kissing him again, John stepped back. “Now use a damn fork, you’re not a baboon.” 

With more than two hours until their client arrived and Rosie and Mrs Hudson still out of the flat, Sherlock let himself enjoy his meal and was leisurely and slow about getting ready for the day. After brushing their teeth, he and John experimented with affection, seeing how much the other enjoyed being stopped for a kiss in the middle of a task. He found that John loved being interrupted during a chore, and John discovered that Sherlock froze in stunned silence no matter what he was doing. Pausing while shaving left them both laughing and wiping foam off their noses. The laughter petered off gradually when John took up the razor to gently shave Sherlock’s cheeks, another shared intimacy he hadn’t expected to enjoy as much as he did. His fingers were trembling too much to do the same for John, but he was able to massage cooling lotion into his skin instead. 

Their kisses didn’t have the same desperate energy that they had the night before, even when John began to back Sherlock toward the bathtub to turn on the water. He caught him around the waist to hold him upright as Sherlock’s heels hit the tub and he tried to climb in without looking. Fumbling around, Sherlock kicked the valve that shut off the tap and turned on the shower head. The pipes rattled and the head coughed and sputtered and sprayed them both with water not quite cold enough to change their minds. 

After considering and rejecting several different options, Sherlock gave in and accepted the fact that there really weren’t many ways to look sexy while scrubbing one's own arse and genitals clean in front of a sexual partner. Least of all one who managed to look like a work of art as he soaped his swelling erection and cupped water in his hands to rinse it off, sudsy droplets streaming off the tip. Sherlock’s self consciousness eased however, when John got shampoo in his eye and had to shove his face under the water to wash it out. 

“I think we did this backwards,” Sherlock grinned, seeing the water bead on John’s face over the thin coating of lotion. He bucked and swore, grabbing at the curtain rod to keep from collapsing when John slipped his hand between his thighs to cradle his bollocks. His shoulders hit the wall under the shower head so the water poured over his chest and down his belly.

“Maybe,” John said with a grin of his own. He used his first two fingers to massage just behind Sherlock’s sac before drawing his hand slowly over each firm globe then up the length of his growing shaft. “But there are certain things-” He stroked his hand back down, easing Sherlock’s foreskin back so he could free the head. “That a partner would want smooth skin for.” With his free hand braced against the tile for balance, John crouched down on his toes. Just in front of his lips, even with the strong grip on the base, Sherlock’s cock bobbled up and down in invitation. John licked from the underside of the head to the top, catching water as he went. 

In two different languages, Sherlock cursed as John closed his mouth around his cock. He didn’t trust his legs to support his weight entirely so he kept a hold on the curtain rod with one hand, but he needed to touch John. To caress his hair, or stroke his cheek, or just rest his fingers on the back of his head to show himself that he really was there in front of him, tormenting him with his mouth. “Who taught you to do that?” he groaned as John bobbed his head, taking a little more of him each time. When John hummed thoughtfully around his mouthful, Sherlock saw stars. 

“A very enthusiastic amateur fly-half in New Zealand,” John replied, releasing him with a pop. “I taught him how to twist in the air so he could tuck and roll on landing after grabbing the ball, and he taught me this-” He lunged back in, swallowing Sherlock down and dragging his tongue over the underside. He sucked long and slow until he reached the head where he flicked the tip of his tongue back to work over the opening. 

Sherlock buried his fingers into the hair at the back of John’s head and closed his eyes tightly. He could handle seeing John sucking him, or he could handle experiencing it physically, but both at the same time was too much for him. “Remind me to send him a case of brandy as a Thank You.” He gasped and twisted his fingers when John did something with his tongue that he was fairly certain only a snake was capable of executing. “Or a fucking car. Yes, I think this deserves a car. One of those sporty little hybrid numbers with the computer in the dash.” He was babbling. He knew he was babbling. Words were tumbling from his lips with a speed and clumsiness usually reserved for truly baffling deductions made after consuming a bottle of wine. Sherlock was pleased that even in middle-age, he was still learning things about himself. 

“Probably save the car for what he taught me in exchange for learning how to avoid a left flanker from being able to get a ball ‘n’ all.” 

“I don’t even think half of those are real words. What- Hell!” John smirked up at him and turned him around. Sherlock slapped his palms against the wall, his fingers scrambling for purchase and his forehead pressing against the now warm tile. 

“This is what you want me to have smooth cheeks for.” John stroked Sherlock’s arse from the top of his thighs to the small of his back and across to his hips. Each time he swept to the sides, he parted the cheeks. Just slightly to begin with, letting his body get used to the muscles being moved in unfamiliar ways. 

“You don’t have to do that, John.” Sherlock’s blushed, and he was sure it wasn’t just the cheeks on his face that were burning red. 

“Do you not want me to?” John asked, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s tail bone. 

“It’s not- I mean- No one’s-” Thumping his forehead against the wall, Sherlock looked down. John’s knees were between his feet, and he could just see his erection jutting up from his lap. John was clearly enjoying this just as much as he was. Of course he was, he thought. How often did John get to be the one rendering Sherlock stunned and amazed? With a few darts of his tongue he could turn Sherlock into a panting, desperate mess. He groaned and arched his back, spreading his legs as wide as the tub sides would allow. “Yes, I really do want you to. I’ve just never experienced it before, and I worry if we tick off everything from my sexual bucket list in one week, you might get bored and I might combust.” 

The sound of John’s laughter echoed off the walls. “Oh, we’re definitely writing out that bucket list of yours later. But trust me,” he shifted on his knees to lean in. Holding Sherlock’s arse cheeks spread, he planted a kiss directly onto his puckered hole. When he spoke again, his voice was muffled. “I could never get bored of you.” He nuzzled in with a soft growl and slipped a hand between Sherlock’s thighs to reach up for his cock. The other held his hip, tugging him back against his face. 

It was filthy in a way Sherlock could never have guessed he would enjoy. John was all but snarling against his skin as he lapped and kissed and mouthed at him. His fist was pumping away at his cock with no rhythm to speak of; occasionally working over the tip, or stroking the full length, or twisting his hand around the base. Without a pattern to follow, Sherlock couldn’t brace himself or guess which direction John might go. All he could do was hope he didn’t collapse. He understood now, why it was best that John was clean shaven. The way he was moving -head worrying from side to side, chin nudging against his perineum, cheeks rubbing against cheeks- would have left him scraped so raw from stubble that he wouldn’t be able to sit still for days. 

After an eternity, John climbed back to his feet, kissing a path up Sherlock’s spine. “Knew there was a plus side to you being so damn tall,” he chuckled roughly when his prick fit perfectly between the tops of Sherlock’s thighs so the swollen head nudged out just below his bollocks. 

“I’ll cancel my order for a step stool,” Sherlock said with a wobbly laugh. He groped about for the bar of soap and lathered his hands. Reaching down, he swiped his fingers over his inner thighs to give John some slip to his slide. Over the sound of the water hitting the tub floor, the wet, slick sounds of their movement was almost hypnotic. Each time John thrust between his legs the soap bubbles frothed thicker until they were pouring down his legs in rivulets. Sherlock rinsed his hand so he could cup the head of John’s cock, the pad of his thumb teasing at the very tip. 

When John took him in his hand again, Sherlock had to bite down on his lip to keep from crying out. There was a strong, confident arm around his chest to keep him close, an expert hand stroking him firm and fast, and teeth against his spine. Water poured down his back to puddle between them only to be spilled out when John drew his hips back for another snapping thrust. Sherlock was dimly conscious of the slap of his rump against John’s belly, a soapy squelch that would have made him cringe if he wasn’t too busy moaning out his partner’s name and warning about how close he was getting. 

“Almost,” he whispered, dropping his head. “Almost, John. Close. Very-” Sherlock arched, his legs tensing to bring him up on his toes. John coaxed the orgasm out of him with sweet words and a strong grip. Try as he might to stay quiet, when Sherlock saw a stream of come burst from John’s cock, he belted out a string of curses and praise until the ringing in his ears began to ease. 

Rather than the disappointed bump he was used to, Sherlock drifted calmly back to earth with John holding him upright and brushing his nose back and forth against the back of his neck. Between breathy giggles, John kissed his shoulder blades and stroked his stomach. 

“Can you hold your own weight?” John asked, turning his head to rub his cheek against Sherlock’s back. 

Sherlock tentatively took his hand away from the shower pipe, ready to catch himself in case his legs buckled. His other hand braced against the wall as he slowly straightened. “I think I’m good,” he panted, shaking his head to try to toss his wet hair back from his face. It clung to his forehead and across his eyes. 

“Oh, definitely more than good.” 

Silently chuckling, Sherlock pushed his hair back and turned around. “Very smooth, Dr Watson,” he said, cupping water to rinse soap and semen off his legs. “Do you think next time you can aim for the drain? I think it would make cleaning up much easier.” 

John laughed outright and reached past Sherlock to wipe the pearly splashes off the wall. “I do so love constructive criticism after a performance. Maybe I’ll pick you up a set of score cards so you can properly rate me.” 

“Responds well to encouragement, a quick study, high stamina, impressive range of skill. Nine stars.” Sherlock held John’s hand for support as he climbed out of the tub. He shook out a towel and scrubbed it over his head before knotting it at his waist. He took the other and used it to wipe water from John’s face and gently pat his chest and shoulders dry. 

“Only nine stars? Where do I need improvement?” John asked, snatching the towel to wrap around himself with a faked frown. 

Sherlock turned and cocked his hip to the side, tugging the edge of the towel down enough that a clear round imprint of John’s teeth could be seen high on his rump. “We have to discuss areas suitable for… Marking.” 

Snaking an arm around Sherlock’s waist, John grinned up at him. “I hate to break it to you, my sweet sleuth, but you wear Dad Jeans lately. No one’s going to be seeing that much of your bum unless you plan on doing some plumbing.” He reached down and clapped Sherlock on the arse with both hands, gripping and jiggling it. “And can you blame me for wanting to chomp down on this beauty? Would you rather I hoovered your neck like a teenager?”

Sherlock’s bright blush left John laughing as they left the bathroom to find clothes and put together a lunch before their client arrived. 

  
  
  
  
  


Noon came and went with no sign of Gloria. 

Rosie and Mrs Hudson returned and John put the shopping away, then prepared lunch. 

“Has she answered yet?” he asked, stepping over Sherlock’s legs to get to the far side of the sofa. He gave him a sandwich and took a bite of his own. 

“The messages I’ve sent are coming back as Read, but she’s not replying to them. I called, and it went to voicemail after two rings.” Sherlock drummed his nails on his thigh, his food ignored until John waved it under his nose. Rolling his eyes, he accepted the plate. “I don’t know if she’s just ignoring me, or if someone else has her phone. The problem is that either option is equally likely.” Sherlock considered his sandwich for a moment before biting into it. “Remind me to never take a famous client again,” he said around his mouthful. “It’s just not worth the frustration.” 

Rosie climbed onto the sofa with them, carrying a box of glass cut beads and ribbons. She settled herself against John’s side to get his help with making knots as she chatted about the gift she was making for her friend Lucy. Carefully following a sheet of instructions, she strung beads to make a frog in a variety of shades of blue. 

“Is Miss Sunchild being improfessional again?” she asked, holding the frog up to look it over with a stern eye. The only reason Sherlock or her father had scowled lately, especially when they were in the same room together, had been whenever the star of their play was misbehaving, so she thought it was a safe deduction to make. Any time she was around him and they weren’t playing their characters, Sherlock made a sour face that was usually reserved for when Mycroft came by the flat.

“That’s meant to be unprofessional, Watson. And yes, I think she is.” Sherlock selected an aquamarine bead and offered it to Rosie as a finishing touch. “Why don’t we make your friend one of your Calm Down bottles as well? If Miss Sunchild isn’t here by the time we’re finished, we’ll call her again.” 

Eyes lit up, Rosie tumbled off the sofa to sprint to her room. “She likes blue!” she exclaimed when she returned, hauling a basket of supplies behind her. “Can you help me make it look like space? She likes space, and stars, and neb-u-las.” She pronounced the word with such care that it was clear that she had practised it to herself to make sure it was correct. “Those are star clouds and they make shapes in the sky. There’s one that looks like a butterfly, and lots of ones that look like flowers.” As she explained what she had learned about the far reaches of the universe, Rosie painstakingly measured out water and mineral oil and colourants for the bottle. Each bead and sequin was chosen for the way it would shimmer and float, and she explained why she had picked it before sorting them into separate piles on the table. She let Sherlock pour in the extras to prevent mishaps, and watched over John’s shoulder when he used the hot glue to seal the lid. Giving the bottle a shake, the glitter settled slowly and looked like winking stars in a dark blue sky. She tied a ribbon around the top to hang a cluster of silvery charms before declaring it finished. 

“Would you like to wrap it?” John asked, picking threads of drying glue off his jeans and rolling them into a ball. “I think we have some blue tissue left over from Sherlock’s birthday that you can use.” 

Rosie took the ball of glue to throw it in the bin along with the empty sequin packages. When she returned, she bumped her head into John’s ribs to burrow against him. “N-nuh, I want to put them in a present bag. So I can make sure they stay in one piece. Nana has lots of them downstairs, she said I could have one when I told her about the frog. She’ll let me have a bigger one to put both in.” She began tugging gently on her earlobe. A trip to the shops with just their landlady was a more physical chore than she was normally used to, and her sleep patterns were thrown out of sync from rehearsals. John had tried to let her sleep in as much as she needed in the mornings, as well as encouraged naps during the day, but the investigation into the Secret of the Shushed Voices had interrupted her sleep more than usual. She wasn’t  _ tired, _ she would insist if asked, just the sort of relaxed and slightly sleepy feeling that came from being busy and the centre of her family’s attention. 

Something was different between her father and uncle, she could see. They were always friendly with one another, even if Sherlock left something unpleasant in the fridge or if John nodded off during a deductive display. The difference between them was a good thing, though. Despite the worry about the case they were working on, they were smiling more, laughing, and Sherlock even reached over to squeeze John’s fingers while they talked about Gloria’s behaviour. Tucked into a ball on one end of the sofa, she watched them both with sharp, intelligent eyes, and tried to figure out what the change had been. Whatever it was, she hoped it stayed this way. The ‘grump lines’ on her father’s brow were softer, the curved lines on his cheeks were higher from smiling and laughing. She’d never seen the dimple on his right cheek so often. Sherlock looked shy, and when John returned his touches his face turned pink and he blinked in confusion the same way he still did whenever John gave him a compliment. 

Grinning, Rosie hugged her knees closer to her chest and ducked her head until her nose was against them so neither man could see the look on her face. If they noticed her watching them so closely, they might stop whatever it was they were doing and go to being tense and frustrated around each other. She loved the sound of her father’s giggling and her uncle’s almost silent chuckles, and she’d heard more of them in just the last hour than she had in days. 

When the doorbell rang, Rosie couldn’t hold back the annoyed groan as she let her body flop against the cushions, letting go of her knees and clawing at the sofa to try to hide. “She better not stink this time!” she shouted, voice mostly lost in the upholstery leather. From her experience of the last two times that Gloria had visited the flat since play rehearsals started, Rosie knew that fleeing to her room would be pointless. The actress would call her down to croon at her and pinch at her cheeks until they were red and stinging. 

Turning her face at the sound of a creak on the landing, she opened one eye to see Nana Hudson touching a finger to the side of her nose before she crept upstairs. While hushed voices spoke downstairs, her grandmum returned with Porridge in her arms and Rosie’s headphones on her head. She sat next to her and rubbed her back. “Here, Princess. Porridge will keep you company while Daddy and Uncle Lockie deal with their client. And you can drown them out if they start getting too loud.” She took the headphones off and draped them around Rosie’s neck then set the rabbit down with her.

Since the case had started, Mrs. Hudson had attended a couple of rehearsals in John’s absence and immediately lost all taste for one Gloria Sunchild, and was beginning to suspect that the tabloid papers might actually have been telling the truth for once when it came to her behaviour. When the actress had snapped at one of the little boys on set for stumbling over his words, her maternal instincts had kicked into overdrive and Sherlock had needed to restrain her from trying to storm the stage with her handbag swinging. She found that she was made for grandparenthood, and was tickled pink that she had earned the title without having to go through all the fuss and discomfort of having her own children first. 

“I’ll pack you up some treats to take to the theatre. You can share them with your friends, and show off that you’ve learned all your lines.” 

Nodding, Rosie leaned into the kiss to her cheek that she anticipated from plenty of experience. Porridge threw herself into an energetic binky display around the cushions before spreading out to her full length with her head against her girl’s knee. With her hind legs stretched back, she took up most of the sofa and one ear trailed nearly to the floor. She grunted and honked quietly while her back was stroked. 

“Oh, what a darling picture this makes!” 

Rosie winced and buried her fingers into Porridge’s thick fur to keep from curling them into a fist. She looked up at Gloria with her best attempt at a smile and wished her a good afternoon. 

Behind her a tired looking man was carrying her handbags and coat, and under one arm he had a bundle of papers. His light grey eyes went wide when he saw a child in the room. “Erm, Gloria, I don’t know that this is an appropriate- I mean, with a kid here and all. Maybe we should wait until… Well, until she’s gone for naptime or something?” He had an American accent that seemed to bounce around the whole country without settling down in any one region for more than a few syllables. 

Sherlock followed in behind the man and went to his left side then ducked around to his right to make him spin to try to keep up with him. “Our Watson has become quite vital to our investigation into these threats. And since she is part of the production, she might be at as much risk as your employer. We’ll leave it up to her, whether or not she wants to stay and listen, provided you watch your language.” 

“You mean I don’t have to pay attention?” Rosie perked up, letting go of her handful of fur. “Can I sit and read in your chair?” She stretched out her legs to hop off the sofa, her pet thumping down beside her. “I’ll read my script, and be quiet. Nana got my headphones, so I can listen to the songs.” The headphones were normally to cancel out noises when she was out of the flat and couldn’t handle the sound of traffic and strangers talking all around her, but they also worked well to let her listen to music or audiobooks and still be around her family without disrupting their work. 

John fetched Rosie’s script and got her settled into Sherlock’s chair with her rabbit sprawled across her lap like a protective, fluffy barrier. Before putting on her headphones to drown out the world, she smiled her best You Should Let Me Eat A Mars Bar For Dinner smile up at Gloria. “Did you bring your puppy? He can sit with me too, if he promises not to nip at Porridge. She bites back.” 

“Of course, darling girl.” Gloria gestured for her assistant to step forward and she rooted about in her bag to haul out the dog who looked like he was in need of a grooming. “He’ll be a little angel. Won’t you, Alphie?” She crossed the room and tucked him next to Rosie then wiped fur off her hands and shirt onto the floor. The rabbit gave the dog a once over before deciding that the vacuum cleaner was far more of a threat than him and flopped onto her side for Rosie to pet her stomach. 

Armed with her stickers and coloured pens and with the script on Sherlock’s music stand so she could read while still surrounded by the animals, Rosie turned on the play’s score and tuned out the adults. 

“Does she usually hang out when you guys are working?” The assistant asked, setting down his armfuls. With nothing in his hands, he seemed uncomfortable and twisted his fingers together before tucking them into his back pockets then his front then finally crossing his arms. 

John had gone into the kitchen to pour some coffee. He returned in time to hear the question. “We don’t talk about disembowlings and beheadings around her. Most of the work we do in the flat is just reading over witness statements and peering into microscopes.”

Sherlock, who got regular emails from a certain, now teenaged, boy wanting to visit the morgue during gruesome murder cases, slurped his coffee loudly and tried to force the colour out of his cheeks. Archie had an excellent career in pathology ahead of him, if he could get his grades in maths up. 

“Besides,” John continued, levelling a flat stare at Sherlock. “We work from home to be with her during summer hols. No point in doing that if we’re always chasing her out of the room.” He sat on the sofa, waving his hand to hint that their client and her assistant should take a seat in the desk chairs that were set out. “But that’s not why you’re here. The text you sent to Sherlock said something had been sent to your resident address, Miss Sunchild?” 

With the cue to speak, Gloria sank into the chair and heaved a shuddering breath. She pushed her hair away from her face, each of her bracelets clinking into the one beside it as they settled down her arm. “Murphy, please, show them.” She lifted her gaze and rested her hand lightly on the man’s knee with an affectionate smile. “Murphy Bell, he’s been my assistant through thick and thin. My pillar of strength. Without him beside me through all of this… I would have crumpled by now.” 

“Er, jus’ doing my job, Sunny.” He ducked his head, plainly uncomfortable with the attention. He flicked through the stack of papers he had brought with him and produced a manila envelope. “These were in the front hall when we got home last night. They’d come in through the mail slot.” 

John used a tissue to hold the corner of the envelope and tipped its contents out onto the table. 

They were photos taken with an instant camera. Each was of Gloria, taken while she went about her day. Most were from a distance and obscured by plants or a car window or people, but one of them was of her sitting at a table on the patio of a cafe. She was talking on her phone and feeding her dog a bit of pastry, oblivious to the person who was at the table beside her, snapping her photo. This picture was scribbled over with a red pen, a dotted line across her throat and a slashed X over her heart. 

The last item in the envelope was a sheet of paper with words cut from a magazine pasted onto it along with posed pictures from one of the cast photo shoots that Apple A Day’s producers had done to celebrate the next series getting renewed for an extra six episodes. Gloria’s face had been torn out of each picture. 

“What does it say?” Sherlock asked, putting his cup aside to peer over John’s shoulder. 

“It, er,” John cleared his throat. “‘Sour apple, bad apple, you’re rotten to the core. Glory hog, your blood will be splattered on the floor.’” 

Gloria covered her face with a sob. “They sent this to my flat, Sherlock. My  _ home! _ They are telling me that they can get to me no matter if I’m at the theatre, or on the street, or in my own bed.” She wiped her eyes and sniffled. “I’m so scared. I don’t know what to do.” 

Sherlock took the note and spread it out on the coffee table to go over with his magnifying lens. “Whoever did this wore gloves. There’s an imprint here… Here, and here. In the glue. Instead of a fingerprint, it’s from a sterile glove that has texturing on the fingertips.” He put his nose almost to the paper and gave it a sniff. “Latex gloves, with talc, so not food service ones or the kind that come in boxes of hair dye. The glue is from a stick, the sort kids use for crafts. See in the corner? The person tried to stick something else here and changed their mind. The glue left a circle which only happens when using glue sticks. When pulling it away, threads of the glue came up with it and dropped back down to create this sort of sunburst pattern.” His eyes lit up and he wriggled about in his seat. “Dust, John. There’s dust. Oh, beautiful particulates. Fetch me some scissors.” 

He carefully snipped away the corner and set it aside to examine under his microscope. 

“Might the dust’ve just come from Gloria’s apartment?” Murphy asked, furrowing his brow. “I mean, none of them were in a package. I just stuffed ‘em into the envelope when she started bellowing.” 

“Yes, there will be traces from her flat, but most of the dust will have come from where this note was made.” Sherlock didn’t bother looking up from the page. 

“I guess I just don’t see how you can tell where dust comes from. It’s just crap in the air, after all. Like, it’s skin cells and little fluffies, isn’t it?” 

Sherlock flapped a hand. “John, elucidate, would you?” 

John smirked into his coffee cup then took a small sip. “In a dust sample, even one that size, Sherlock can see skin cells, yes. But he might also find pollen, man-made fibres, pet dander, mould spores-” Sherlock groaned with delight at that. “Paint traces, and hair. Pollen could tell us about local plants of course which can narrow down the area of the city, but also any house plants they have. Pet dander is obvious. We can learn what colour their carpet is, what kind of shirt they were wearing. Do they have dandruff? Oily skin? Dry skin? Are they in an old building or new? Have they cleaned recently? How long ago did they put this together? With a microscope, Sherlock can work all that out.”

“I… I had no idea.” Murphy said. 

Sherlock snorted. “Most people don’t. They think a pair of gloves to cover their prints will keep them safe. But those ‘little fluffies’ as you call them can be as good, better even, than a fingerprint.” He turned the page over and waved it under his nose. “Did you handle this barehanded?” 

“Yeah, but I just held it by the corner.” 

“Do you have difficulty walking the dog?” 

Murphy’s brows knitted together. “What does that-”

“You use a very thick hand cream. Presumably for contact dermatitis. You’re allergic to your employer’s dog. Your hands have a rash just above each wrist where the hair is the thickest. Most doctors prescribe the same sort of cream, which has a strong scent. You’d applied it just before going into the flat, didn’t you?”

“You got that from a sniff?” 

“I needed to know of any possible cross contamination.” Sherlock straightened and smiled blandly. “I wouldn’t want to go accusing you of threats of murder unwarranted, after all.” 

“You can’t think my Murphy has anything to do with this.” Gloria looked horrified at the idea. “He’s been my dearest friend, and I trust him completely. He would never do anything to harm me.” She put her hand back to his knee and left it there, her bright blue acrylic nails dimpling the denim he wore. 

“I’m aware. He very clearly only has your well being in mind. It’s just as important to rule people out, as it is to pinpoint this stalker.” 

Heaving another little sniffle, Gloria rubbed her hand over her forehead. For a moment she looked her true age. And tired. “Should I go to the press with this, Mr Holmes? Sherlock? Would it be a good idea to show whoever is doing this that I’m not going to be frightened off?” 

“No, absolutely not. The moment you get the press involved, they will begin their own investigation.” Sherlock slipped the photos and the note back into the envelope which he set on the sofa next to himself. “My involvement will be found out, which will make it impossible for me to continue my work. Never mind that it will mean I’ll have to pull out of the production, which will put things behind schedule. That would certainly anger a lot of people, making it even harder to single out the one who is doing this.” 

“Just…” Gloria sighed and drooped. It took a real effort for her to rally herself and sit straighter in her seat. The creases across her forehead smoothed out and her lips which had been pressed into a tight line returned to their usual doll-like pout. “Just promise you’ll keep me safe.” 

“We’ll do everything in our power, Miss Sunchild,” John said. “We’re continuing our investigation both at the theatre and at home. This new move,” he tapped the envelope. “Will get us closer to your harasser.” 

Sherlock nodded in agreement. “It’s essential that you keep an eye out around you for anyone who seems out of place. Before rehearsal tonight, go for a walk in the park or do some shopping. Make a note of anyone who is paying you particularly close attention.” 

“Gloria is a celebrity, Mr Holmes. Everyone pays attention to her when she’s out. And she’s always so kind to her fans, she’s not gonna stop them from coming up to ask for autographs or a selfie.” Murphy gathered up Gloria’s bag and helped her into her coat. He tucked the stack of papers under his arm, and John caught a quick glance at the top sheet. It was a title page from a script. 

With promises that they would spend the rest of the time until rehearsal was scheduled at the park, the pair left. 

Only to return fifteen minutes later to retrieve the dog.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you recognise that lullaby, you can probably guess where my love of ridiculously dramatic suburban crime-fighting dads comes from...


	9. Break A Leg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whoever is so determined to scare Gloria out of the production makes their move, but she's not the one that suffers the consequences when disaster strikes the actors.

“See, if you shake it, it looks like stars and if you watch them all settle back to the bottom it helps if you’re in a grump or if the world is too loud.” 

Lucy turned the bottle upside down and watched, transfixed, as the glitter swirled and droplets of blue and purple water bubbled through the clear mineral oil. “It’s so cool,” she exclaimed and leaned across the gift bag to bump her forehead against Rosie’s in thanks. “Like a galaxy.” The little girl bounced happily where she was sat cross legged on the stage floor and set the bottle aside to see what else was in the bag. She held the frog up to admire the way the glass beads sparkled under the stage lights then clipped it to the zip tab on her pastel nebula backpack. 

After Gloria had left them alone, and she grew bored of her script, Rosie had strung silver beads and charms onto some satin ribbons from her craft box. Lucy squeaked with excitement when she took them out and waved for her mother to come over to tie them into her hair. The bows around each of her Afro puffs tinkled the charms together when she shook her head from side to side. “Thank you! These are gonna be great during the dances,” she giggled, giving Rosie another forehead touch. 

“That’s what Daddy said when we were picking out the danglies. And he says the little crabby is what your birthday’s star is. It’s his, too.” 

While Lucy enthused about the Cancer constellation and the possibility of habitable planets surrounding its stars, the rest of the cast helped themselves to the catering table and got comfortable for the wait they all knew was coming until Gloria made her grand entrance. The group of nuns shared a plate of biscuits held by their Mother Abbess and gossiped about upcoming productions and auditions. The von Trapp boys loudly ridiculed one of the lighting technicians for thinking that Baby Shark was still funny then flossed aggressively at him until he begged for mercy. The younger of the girls gradually made their way over to Rosie and Lucy with the tray of oatmeal squares as an offering to sit in a circle on the stage floor to listen about space and dinosaurs and have their hair played with. 

The mood was light and cheerful, and if anyone concluded that it was because Gloria still hadn’t arrived after half an hour, they kept it to themself in favour of having the opportunity to practice lines in peace. Texts to her phone were showing Read, and just as they had earlier in the day when anyone tried to reach her, calls were sent to voicemail by someone hitting the Ignore button. 

Another forty-five minutes passed before Anton put his fingers to his lips to blow a piercing whistle that had several of the cast and crew clapping their hands over their ears. “Sorry, I forgot how good the acoustics are in this theatre,” he said awkwardly and tried to shake it off. “It looks like we’re going to be running long...er than usual, if we keep waiting for Gloria to show up. I know we were going to be working on the opening scenes today, but I think it would be best to shuffle things about and get the kids doing their Do Re Mi choreography since they’re all here and ready to go.” He gave them a grateful, proud smile. “Then we’ll do the So Long piece, with Scott and Laura standing in for the whole choir. If we have time left over after those are under our belts, we’ll get the kids used to the goat puppets. Trust me, we tried to make them as un-terrifying as possible, but they still came out a little… Well, the stuff of nightmares.” Some of the cast laughed, while the ones who had given in to temptation and watched the Julie Andrews film recently shuddered with barely suppressed horror. Rosie and Sherlock had both been told in no uncertain terms that they were forbidden from bringing any of the puppets home with them. 

“Anna, Stephanie, do you mind switching things up and playing your stand-in roles? I know it’s a big ask, but you’ve both been working hard.” 

Anna saluted with her coffee cup and Stephanie spat a half-chewed biscuit into a napkin to yelp her agreement. 

“Thank you, ladies. Let’s get mics hooked up and tested, and we can try to get things underway.” 

Sherlock had been practising his finger work on the guitar while everyone else was chatting, and he had been so absorbed that he only realised the change of plans when Anna came to tap him on the knee. “Still having trouble with the chord changes,” he admitted, adjusting the shoulder strap for her. “My fingers are used to doing this on a much smaller instrument, so I keep getting them caught under the strings.” Flexing his hand, he handed the guitar over. “And the steel strings are hell.” 

“I’ve been playing electric guitar since I was ten,” Anna explained as she strummed a few chords to make sure she was satisfied with Sherlock’s tuning. “When I first started I had to use those little finger condom things to fight off blisters. They make it easier to keep a grip on the strings, too. Talk to Angharad, she’s probably got a bunch in her office. If she doesn’t, the makeup crew will.” She flashed Sherlock a smile. “You get to watch your little munchkin tonight, that must feel good. Is her dad joining us this time?” 

“He’s gone to get himself a painkiller for a muscle strain, but he shouldn’t be too long. He won’t want to miss the kids doing their first proper choreography.” The lie rolled easily off Sherlock’s lips as he raised his phone to show that he was letting him know what was happening. When they had arrived at the theatre, John had crept off with instructions to monitor anyone acting differently, check call sheets to see who was available to be able to take photos of their client, and try to talk to the stage crew to pick up on potential suspects. He replied to the text, saying he would be right up and asking if he needed anything else done.

Sherlock was relieved that what they had been sharing hadn’t changed their working dynamic. John seemed just as comfortable taking directions from Sherlock as he had the day before. It wasn’t just John he had been worried about acting differently, he had struggled with his own confidence, not certain he would be able to take on the role of commanding officer as he had so often in the past now that John knew he was marshmallow soft and pliable. It was bad enough that he fumbled and stammered after being praised, a firmly worded order and he would fall apart in the middle of a crime scene. 

“What’s that blush about?” 

John’s timing was impeccable as always. And his affected accent wasn’t helping.

“I’m not blushing. It’s warm in here.” 

“Is it, now? Want me to fan you a bit?” John stroked his fingertips over the side of Sherlock’s neck as he sat down beside him. As casually as if he did it everyday. He stretched his legs out in front of him and crossed his ankles then gave the actress a friendly smile. “Understudy duty tonight? Has Miss Sunchild really blown off rehearsal? Not very professional.” 

“I think we’re all surprised that it took so long to happen. I worked with her a bit on a show once, and she was always late. And never did feed lines even though the rest of the cast did theirs.” Anna spun the guitar around to wear it across her back and shrugged. “But it meant less time spent with her, so not many people really complained.” 

“Feed lines?” 

She shook her head with a small laugh. “That’s right, you’re still new to all this, aren’t you?” As she spoke, Anna dug around in her pockets to try to find a hair tie so she could pull her hair up. “You know how in films or television, you get scenes where it’s just one character’s close up for reactions to someone else saying something dramatic?” 

John hummed a positive and took one of Rosie’s ties off his wrist to hand over. 

Smiling her thanks, she continued. “Well, in big productions, there’s someone whose job it is to read lines off camera to the actor so they can react to them. Smaller productions, it’s a PA who does it a lot of the time. But the show I did with Gloria, the rest of the cast were all pretty close. They’d feed lines to each other to spend time together and get a better emotional response.” She snapped the hair tie into place around a ballet bun. “I guess on long running shows, you either become best friends with the rest of your cast, or their biggest enemies. I definitely prefer the stage. If anyone tries to get too superior, they have to at least hold it together for the performance itself. No second takes here. 

“Anyway! Thanks for tuning this beauty up, Scott.” Anna lovingly patted the guitar. “Glad to have you back watching, Mr Watson.” She twiddled her fingers before trotting across the stage to get her microphone hooked up. The youngsters were happy to be performing with her as Maria rather than their sister and they scrambled to be the first to tell her as much. 

Even with the disruption to the schedule, the good mood carried over to the whole cast and crew as the stage was set with the grand staircase that was central to several scenes. It wasn’t yet painted, and the smell of freshly sawn wood was strong. The wheels under the set piece to make changing scenes a quick affair were locked into place and one of the stage managers shoved and leaned on it a few times to test that it wouldn’t slip free. 

Pierre Lancome, the choreographer who despite his name had a strong Welsh accent, tapped his heel on the floor for attention. “If you’re not a von Trapp sprog, let’s clear the stage. Go take a seat down in the audience. It’ll give the kiddies a chance to get used to being watched.” 

The young actors lined up in front of the stairs, full of nervous energy and eager to get started. John waved to Rosie from his seat in the third row. She cast him a quick smile then turned her entire focus onto the choreographer’s instructions. They all knew the song by heart, but pairing the lyrics with a strenuous dance was a daunting prospect for the four smallest performers. It involved hopping sideways from step to step up and down the stairs as if they were keys on a piano, threading their way around one another as they went. Anna’s role called for her to walk backwards up the steps while singing and playing the guitar. 

“When you read, you begin with-”

Rosie bounced on her toes, her trainers thumping the wooden step with each letter of her response. “A, B, C!” 

“And when you sing, you begin with Do, Re, Mi.” 

“Clark,” Pierre interrupted. The music shut off mid-note. “You need to hop a little quicker to keep up with the girls, kiddo. They’re leaving you behind. And Stephanie, your shoe is gonna come loose. Tuck those laces in before you go flying. Places, and we’ll start again.” 

They took five attempts before they made it to the second portion of the song, and Rosie’s first try at a physical stunt that relied on another cast member. It didn’t matter that she did far more reckless moves at home on a regular basis, Sherlock was on the edge of his seat as he watched. 

“Do!” 

“A deer!” Rosie sang, falling sideways, trusting Stephanie to catch her before she landed. As soon as she felt her weight supported by hands against her shoulder she planted her feet and braced herself so Stephanie could launch her back upright only for her to drop the other direction into a different actor’s hold like a grinning metronome. “A female deer!” 

“Jesus Christ,” Sherlock hissed under his breath and clutched the armrest. 

John put his hand over Sherlock’s and squeezed it gently. “We’ll practice it at home, so you can get through it without a meltdown,” he murmured to him. “I don’t think they’d be too happy for you to stop the production by running out on the stage to catch her every night.” 

Sherlock rubbed the side of his neck with his free hand for a moment then settled for tugging on a curl for distraction. He forced himself to relax, eventually turning his hand over so he could link his fingers with John’s. 

“When you know the notes to sing, you can s-” 

The auditorium doors opened to the right of the stage and Gloria stepped in with her assistant in tow. “I am so sorry, my darlings!” she called over the music, waving her sunglasses above her head to make certain that all attention was on her. “There was a small emergency at home, and I lost complete track of the time. I would have called to warn you, but I didn’t want to interrupt the rehearsal.” She dropped her bag on an empty seat as she trotted up to the stage. “Oh, I see you’ve carried on without me. That’s good. Smart. It’ll give Annie a chance to stretch her wings as the understudy.” When she reached Anton’s side, she rubbed his shoulder. “Why don’t I just sit this song out, and let the kids carry on with it? I’ll pick up for the next piece. This way I can give Annie any pointers from an outside perspective. Is there any tea? I’m dying for a cup. You, stagehand-” She stabbed a now purple painted fingernail into the arm of one of the crew as she passed to find a seat. “Lemon tea with lots of honey. I need my throat supple for singing.” 

The stagehand looked like she wanted to club Gloria with the torch hanging from her tool belt, but she took a deep breath and swallowed down whatever curses she was ready to spit in her direction. “One lemon tea, coming up. Anything else for M’ Lady?” 

“Oh, maybe a fizzy drink while you’re up. And a copy of the script, I left mine in the car.” She tucked the glasses into her hair and settled into the front row beside the director. “Go on, Annie. You were doing great!” 

On stage, Stephanie covered her mic with her hand as she turned to Anna. “I’ll give up my turn to sneeze on the bagel for you.” 

“She’s stopped calling me Ang Lee, so I’m counting that as a win at this point,” Anna replied, making sure her voice wasn’t picked up by the microphones as well. 

“The other night she asked what my breasts were made of and if she could give one a squeeze. If Anton hadn’t been there I think she might’ve given it a try.” 

Crooning sympathetically, Anna rubbed Stephanie’s back. “Maybe I’ll invite her to speak at one of the kiddie classes. A lot of them bite.” Laughing, the women ushered the children back down the stairs to start the scene from the beginning. 

On the bottom step, Rosie plucked at Stephanie’s sleeve to get her attention. 

“What’s up, Flower Girl?” 

Rosie wrapped her arms around Stephanie’s waist to give her a tight hug. “Sorry she was mean. Do you want  _ me  _ to bite her?” 

“You heard that, did you?” she asked. 

Shrugging crookedly, Rosie nodded. “I got good hearing. And she touches my uncle a lot, too. It makes him jump. So if you want me to bite her, I will.” She grinned. “I’ll go for the knee. It’ll knock her right over. Daddy taught me to bite and kick and scratch if someone is trying to touch when they shouldn’t. He says fighting rules don’t count then.” 

Stephanie put her hands to Rosie’s cheeks, squishing them gently. “If I need anyone bitten, I promise you’re my go-to girl, okay? But let’s wait until closing night.” 

Rosie stepped back and put her fingers to her forehead in a snappy salute. “I’ll wait for the order.” 

The light mood had quickly drained out of everyone, and they were slower to reset for the scene. Even Pierre, who had barely spent any time with Gloria was bristling at her behaviour and his tone was sharp and curt as he called out the steps. “Okay, Clark, now you’re going too fast. Do I have to make you hold one of the girls’ hands to keep you in time with them?” 

“No, sir,” called the boy and discreetly rubbed his eyes on his wrist before sucking in a shaking breath. “I can do it. Promise.” 

“Then do it. Start from Most Anything.” 

Each child had a note that they called out before hopping to a new step, and during the last verse they had to jump backwards on the stairs until they all finished on the same step together. 

“Do, do,” Rosie sprang back. 

Mi, mi, mi,” Clark bounded up to stand beside her. 

“So, so,” Lucy almost caught her heel on the wooden plank but kept her balance to land next to Clark. 

“Fa!”

There was a sickening crack that resounded through the auditorium of wood splitting free of its fixtures. 

The stairs crumpled inwards. 

The children vanished. 

Sherlock was on his feet and scrambling over the back of the seat in front of him. There were other actors in his way and he slammed through them to reach the stage. “No, no, no, no!” The orchestra pit was an obstacle he didn’t bother trying to rush around. He grabbed the lip of the stage and pulled himself up and over with John close behind. “Rosie!” 

The first several steps were still intact, too high for him to see over into the dark hollow. At the top of the stairs, he could make out a hand clinging to a broken board, blood trickling down a slender wrist from the injured palm. 

“Get the kids. Get them out of there!” It was Anna, trying to haul herself up so she didn’t fall in to land on the sobbing, frightened children. She kicked at the side of the set piece for purchase, swearing at the pain of a splinter digging deeper into her hand. “Scott, you have to get the kids.” 

“I can’t without climbing on top of them,” Sherlock whirled in a circle to try to find something to use. 

John had dashed off stage, shouldering his way through the stunned stage crew. He grabbed a claw hammer from a hanging tool belt. “Sherlock!” He tossed the hammer, trusting in him to catch it and ordered the crew members to fetch water and first aid kits. With someone taking command, they snapped to obey. Actors tried to climb onto the stage, and distraught parents rushed to get to their children. “Unless you know emergency response, stay out of the way,” John shouted, pointing them to the wings. “If you have first aid training, glove up and open kits.” 

Hammer in hand, Sherlock turned it over to wedge the claw under the edge of the stairs at their side. “Rosie, can you hear me?” he called, prying a sheet of plywood loose. John fell to his knees beside him to help yank it free. 

A little boy tumbled out, a gash across his scalp, his face ashen grey. John caught Clark and carefully moved him away from the damage. Tears left tracks in the wood dust on his face. “Just sit tight, wee mate. Someone call ambulances!” he called out and returned to Sherlock’s side. Two of the other little actors squirmed out of the hole and limped to their parents. The oldest boy insisted he was fine despite the blood that was flowing freely from his nose and his eye already swelling shut. When John guided him to sit, his leg buckled and he landed on his rump with a sob. 

With room now to move, Stephanie stood and tucked her shoulder under Anna’s feet to support her weight. “I’m okay,” she coughed, pointing to the girls on the floor. “Get them outta here first.” 

Rosie and Lucy were clinging to one another, hiding from the sound of more wood being broken. They had gotten jammed under the lowest steps and been at the bottom of the pile of people and debris. Rosie screamed out in pain when Sherlock reached in for her. “My leg!” she cried, pressing her hand to the growing patch of darkness on her torn jeans. 

“I know, Rosie. I know. Daddy’ll take care of it, I just have to get you out to him.” Sherlock shifted a slat off of Lucy’s legs to clear a path for them. “Here, just reach out and give me your hands. I’ll pull you out of here.” 

“It hurts! Don’t touch it!” She slapped at her uncle’s hand, her eyes wide and unfocused. “We fell. Sherlock, we fell. How did we fall? What happened?” Her voice grew higher and higher in her panic as the reality of the collapse began to sink in. Rosie keened and began to yank at her braids. 

“We’re going to find out, I promise. But I need to get you out from under here first.” Sherlock turned to place his foot against one of the boards and shoved to snap it out of the way so he could climb the rest of the way through. “I’m here, I’ve got you both.” He dragged himself on his side and put his hand to Rosie’s cheek. “Focus on me. Only on me. Follow me, my darling.” Sherlock propped up on his elbow and touched his finger to his nose then to Rosie’s and back again until he had her attention. “There we go. This is going to hurt a lot, but Daddy will fix it. Can you put your arm around my neck? I’m going to pick you up.” 

Swaying in place, Rosie tucked her arm around Sherlock and Lucy clutched at the collar of his shirt so she didn’t have to let go of her friend’s hand. 

Sherlock lifted them clear, tucking them both under his chin to keep them from seeing how bad the broken set looked. Stephanie followed, leaning on Anna and favouring her right leg. 

None of the eight were left unscathed. Lucy had twisted her ankle on landing and the end of a screw had torn through her shirt sleeve to gouge into her upper arm. She had bitten almost through her bottom lip. Clark’s head injury was bleeding heavily enough that it took John a full package of gauze to stem the flow. Anna’s hands were torn and she’d broken two of her fingers. Stephanie had a swollen knee and a gash on her chin that had only just missed her mouth which would need sutures. 

Rosie pressed her face into Sherlock’s shoulder to muffle her shouting. There was a large shard of wood pierced through the denim over her thigh and into the flesh and a deep scrape up her front from splintered wood dragging along her body. 

“No, my love, you can’t pull it out,” Sherlock caught her hand to keep her from trying to tug the shard away. “We have to… We have to…” He should know this. John had drilled first aid into his head and he had read dozens of books on the subject since Rosie’s conception. He could recite how to administer an Epi-pen, what to do in the event of a burn, how to splint a bone and treat frostbite and perform CPR. In a pinch he could probably do a tracheotomy but he could not for the life of him recall anything that was remotely helpful in that moment.

John tore open a fresh pack of gauze and bandages and pressed them around the wood to keep it in place. “We have to stabilise the foreign object and wait until we know there is no risk of bleeding out or further damaging the underlying tissue before it can be removed in a sterile environment, or as close to one as we can make.” He wound the bandage around Rosie’s thigh, tying it snugly in place. “Because pulling it out without proper preparation can result in debris being left behind, tearing the skin or muscle on exit, and if the object has severed any major blood vessels, its position might be slowing the loss of blood. Especially for injuries to the leg; there’s a lot of important vessels in it. Nurse, put your fingers here and hold firmly.” 

“Yes, Doctor,” Sherlock replied automatically, his hand pressing against Rosie’s leg while John opened another bandage. His vision tunnelled sharply when blood seeped out between his fingers. 

“You called me Rosie,” she mumbled and gave a thick swallow as a wave of nausea rolled over her. The girl’s face was clammy and pale, and she was trembling hard enough that her teeth chattered.

“I did?” Sherlock croaked. John had to pry his fingers away so he could tie off the second bandage below the injury as well. 

His hand was slick with blood. 

“You did. Twice.” 

“It was actually three times,” John put in with a shaky laugh and marked the time on Rosie’s jeans, initialling it with the pen he called for. 

“My deepest apologies, I don’t know what could have come over me. I need to sit down now, or I think I’m going to vomit.” Sherlock’s back hit the set wall and he slid to the floor with Rosie on his lap. He pressed his face to her hair and cradled her close, rocking from side to side until she whined for him to stop moving because the whole room was already spinning. “Where the hell are those ambulances?” he snarled. 

“They’ve only just been called. It’ll be a few minutes, love.” John crouched down beside them and cupped Sherlock’s head. “They’ll be here.” 

High heels clattered on the steps up to the stage. Sherlock peeked over Rosie’s head to see Gloria wading out into the mess. 

“That could have been me!” she wailed and turned to Anton to swing wildly at him. “Do you see? Do you believe me now? Someone wants to kill me, and they don’t care who else gets hurt to get me! It was supposed to be me up there, and I could have been killed.” She shoved the director hard, but stumbled backwards when he didn’t budge. “This could have been me, and it would have been all your fault because you didn’t believe me!” Grabbing her new script from Murphy, she slapped it against Anton’s chest. “I demand that you fire whatever bastard assembled this set. They probably got paid off by the sicko who’s doing this to me. And until you can show me that I’m safe here, I am not setting foot on this stage again!” With another enraged wail, she threw the script to the floor and turned to sob against Murphy’s shoulder and let him lead her away. 

“Sherlock?” John sank down next to him and took his daughter’s shaking hand. 

“Mm?” 

“Add me to the list of suspects.”


	10. Whistling On Stage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Rosie and the other children rushed to hospital to be treated for their injuries, Sherlock investigates, determined to find out how someone was able to sabotage the theatre set piece to cause so much destruction. Meanwhile, John attends his daughter and tries not to cause a scene in A&E, while the kids compare battle scars.

“We can only take two of you,” the paramedic said after buckling Rosie and Lucy into the back of the ambulance. Lucy’s mother was already in the jump seat, leaning over her child and whispering softly to her. Her stepfather had gone ahead to meet them at A&E. 

“Get in,” Sherlock insisted, waving with a shaking hand for John to go with them and giving him Rosie’s backpack. “We both know I’d be useless at a hospital, and I’m going to stick around here to question the crew. You just try not to terrify any of the doctors there, and bring my girl home safe.” 

John gripped the back of Sherlock’s neck to pull him in for a deep kiss. “I’ll only terrify them if they aren’t doing their job properly.” He kissed him again. “I love you.” John straightened and knocked the side of the ambulance to get the paramedic’s attention. 

Rosie looked so tiny in the stretcher, her face screwed up tight with pain as one of the EMS workers checked and replaced the sodden bandages around her thigh. She raised a hand to Sherlock just before the doors shut and the ambulance sped off. 

“She’s gonna be fine. Look, they’re not even under blue lights.” 

Clearing his throat, Sherlock turned to Stephanie who was on the step waiting for one of the next ambulances. Her injured leg was propped up on a flower pot to keep it from being bumped. Someone had found her a frozen water bottle to hold to her face and bring the swelling down around her mouth. Even so, her words were slurred. 

“John’s probably in there giving orders to the medics, or shoving them out of the way so he can work.” Sherlock sat on the step with a thump and buried his hands into his hair. “God help them if there’s a wait when they get to the hospital. He’ll end up breaking into the supply cupboards and performing the surgery himself if he isn’t satisfied. He… Er, he doesn’t handle it well. When we get hurt.” Without realising he did it, Sherlock let go of a clump of dark curls and lightly touched the scar on his side. 

Stephanie tried to hum, but it hurt too much. “Yeah, I think I read that somewhere.” 

“It’s bad enough when it’s me, but Watson being hurt like this. John isn’t going to- Sorry, what?” His head snapped up. “Read what?” 

She took the bottle from her chin and cringed at the red stained tea towel it was wrapped in. “I’d thought you looked familiar,” she explained, shifting herself to take some pressure off her injured leg. “That first audition, I could’ve sworn I’d seen you somewhere before. But that happens all the time at auditions. ‘Is that bloke a cashier from Boots, or did I see him in a show last week?’ kinda thing. It wasn’t until a couple weeks ago that it really clicked. During the first read through, I properly recognised you. And after your little munchkin called you Sherlock just now? That cemented the deal.” 

“Have you said anything to anyone?” 

Flicking her fingers from side to side instead of trying to move her head, Stephanie dismissed the concern. “Not my secret to tell. I figure you have a reason to be here. And good money says that reason wears knock off Jimmy Choos and throws a tantrum every twenty minutes. Is she a client, or a suspect? Ah, finally, it’s my turn.” 

The paramedic who rolled a wheelchair up to the theatre steps was tall, with dark ginger hair and a star map of freckles across his cheeks. Stephanie glanced at the way his shoulders filled out his uniform and leaned pitifully against him for support into the chair before whimpering in distress. “Can I hold your hand as we drive?” she asked with a timid hand placed on his tattooed forearm as she was wheeled away. “Oi, Scotty!” she called from the back of the ambulance. “She’ll be back home before you know it.” 

Sherlock waved her off and watched the last of the injured cast members get into the final ambulance with his mother.

The rest of the cast and crew looked as lost as Sherlock felt. Anton paced three steps one way, turned around, and paced three steps back while speaking rapidly into his mobile. Every few rotations he stopped to wipe his cheeks and catch his breath. His husband had arrived moments after the emergency response teams and was following behind the director to try to coax him into sitting down or at least taking a sip of water. Huddled together just inside the theatre doors, the stage hands and production assistants comforted and reassured one another and shared theories about what had happened. Of the unscathed actors, most had an air of fear about them. The Mother Abbess and the Baroness took charge, going about to each person to give tissues or water or biscuits and a hug as needed. 

“Here, Scott. Drink this.” A cup of juice was shoved under his nose, and he looked up to see his stage fiancee frowning down at him in concern. “Did you let anyone take a look at your hands?” 

“My…?” As he took the cup, Sherlock noticed for the first time that his palms were scraped raw and peppered with small splinters. Finally acknowledged, they began to burn and throb. “Ow.” he said flatly. 

“Men,” she tutted and squatted down next to him to grab him by one wrist. “You’d all revert back to walking fish if you didn’t have someone looking after you.” She snapped on a pair of sterile gloves from a first aid kit she pulled from her handbag. 

“My usual nanny just had to leave with his other dependent,” Sherlock mumbled and submitted himself to having his hands flushed with peroxide and wrapped in gauze. It was so  _ unlike  _ John’s treatment that it started to shake Sherlock from his daze. “Laura, has something like this ever happened in a production that you know of?” he asked, his voice coming back to a semblance of normality. 

The actress held out a second pair of gloves for Sherlock to put on over his bandages. “A few years ago, the chandelier fell out of its rigging during a rehearsal for Phantom. If there’d been an audience in the seats some of them might have been killed. But that was down to the theatre’s structure. A beam in the ceiling was rotting and the building manager fudged the paperwork to say that it was fine. And we’ve all had prop problems. A flash bang goes off late, or a stage sword breaks. I did Warhorse last November and during the third night of performances, my squib went off early and I’ve still got the scar on my stomach. Henrietta was just telling me about a stage knife not collapsing entirely during her death scene in Romeo and Juliet back when she first started.” Laura put a hair tie on each of Sherlock’s wrists to keep the opening of the gloves more securely closed. “Something like this though? The kids all getting hurt? No, I haven’t seen something this bad before.” 

Sherlock flexed his fingers to make sure he still had feeling in each of them then tossed back his cup of juice like it was a whiskey shot. “Do you know, was the set piece built in-house, or did they hire a contractor for it?” 

“All the set pieces are built by the theatre’s carpenters. Why?” 

Standing up, Sherlock gestured to their director. “I think Anton needs some rescuing. His husband is about to strong arm him into sitting down. Maybe you can try to give him a hand?” 

“What?” She looked over her shoulder and sighed. “Seriously. Your whole species needs someone to hold your hands and pat your heads. Anton Greene! I  _ will  _ call your sister in here if I have to!” Armed with her first aid kit and a scowl, she marched threateningly across the square.

Every time before that Sherlock had gone into the theatre it had been noisy, people reciting lines, the acting camp members running up and down the aisles while waiting for their parents to collect them, or the staff chatting, there had always been sound. Now, it was silent save for his muffled footsteps on the carpet as he made his way down to the stage. This, despite the staff members sitting on the stage around the debris of the set. None of them spoke. 

“Hey, Mr Williams,” one said softly when he climbed the steps to join them. She rubbed her cheeks and straightened a bit. “Is your daughter okay? She got the worst of it, didn’t she?” Patting the floor next to her, the young woman invited him to join them. 

He crouched down on his heels, avoiding looking at the splashes of blood on the floor nearby. “She’s on her way to A&E right now. She’ll have a limp for a while, but she’s a tough little thing.” Someone offered him a drink from a foul smelling flask which he declined with a curt shake of his head. 

He was Sherlock Holmes, now. Scott Williams, aspiring actor, was buried away. 

“Who built the stairs?” he asked, his voice blunt. 

“Devon,” said the young woman, nodding to a man who sat up against the soundboard with his head in his trembling hands. “He’s the master carpenter. Designed every-” Sherlock didn’t give her a chance to finish, he was already on his feet and stalking across the stage. 

“What happened?” Sherlock demanded of the man when he reached him. “How did it come apart?” 

Middle-aged and stout, Devon Macintosh had been the theatre’s head carpenter and set designer for almost a decade. He had created hundreds of sets, supervised the building of everything from single door frames to city backdrops. His rotating location set for a production of Peter Pan had won him an Olivier just two years earlier. And he had no idea how things had gone so badly. He told Sherlock as much. 

“It should’ve held the entire cast up there. That was the plan for the final bows. You were all supposed to come down them and do your bows while singing. It should’ve held a few kids jumping.” He sniffed and wiped his sleeve under his nose. “We tested it. My team tests  _ everything. _ We did the maths, and triple checked. Then we jumped up and down on the damn thing yesterday for good measure because we knew it was going to be used today. If it was gonna break, it would have broken at the wheel casters, not the boards. That would’ve just brought the thing down a few inches with a bump. Not. Not that.” He stabbed a finger to the mess. “It shouldn’t have happened, I swear.” 

“Did you test it again this morning?” 

“There was no reason to. The theatre’s locked up to everyone but the producers and owners. We made sure it locked into place properly, but there was nothing to make me think it needed to be checked again.” He sounded like he was trying to convince himself of this just as much as Sherlock. 

Nose crinkling, Sherlock tilted his head to the side. “You said because you knew it was going to be used. Not because it was finished. How long has this piece been complete?” 

“Erm… Just a sec. I gotta check that.” Devon pulled out his mobile and opened a schedule. He scrolled slowly as he read. “Yesterday we finished the greenhouse set. That took a couple days. And before that we did Maria’s bedroom. Then that stupid puppet theatre. The stairs have been done for about a week and a half. Closer to two.” He turned the phone over and handed it to Sherlock so he could see the ticked off point on the schedule, along with the notes about the time of day it finished and how long it had taken compared to the estimate. It had come in at just an hour longer than expected because one of the interns had spilled a box of screws across the floor. 

“Two weeks.” Something tickled at the back of Sherlock’s mind. It took shamefully long for him to drag it up to the surface. “How…” A sense memory hit him. “Cut wood.” 

“What now?” 

“Cut wood. Fresh cut wood. How long does that smell last?” Sherlock reached down to grab Devon by the wrist and pulled him to his feet. “After you cut at a board, when does the sawdust smell go away?” 

“A couple days, if it’s not damp. But we hoover up all the sawdust, so it doesn’t get into the varnish and paint. It looks like hell if we don’t. And it tracks all over the carpet. The owners would chirp, and make us pull out the big unit to do the aisles.” 

“It was fresh. I could smell it from the seats.” Sherlock dragged the carpenter along behind him to the pile of broken wood. He ignored the split plywood sheets he had torn away to reach Rosie and yanked free one of the pieces that had once made up the step. “Is this a normal scent?” 

It was plain where Sherlock was going with this, and Devon’s eyes bugged wide at the implication. He gave a sharp inhale then shook his head. “Christ. No, this is like it was just built.” He took the board and turned it over in his hands, running his fingers down its length. One end was jagged, shards stabbing out in ugly spikes. It was only under examination that they saw that those spikes were just on one side of the board. On the other side was a clean, straight cut that went an inch into the wood. The cut was on the part of the board that would have been on the inside of the stair’s structure. Devon dropped the board and pulled out another. The cut was on a different spot, but it was clear on that one as well, and the next that they looked over. Not all of them were squared off. Some angled to one side or the other, and some were deeper at one end, barely a nick at the other. “Whoever did this doesn’t know how to use the tools.” 

“How can you know that?” 

“Here, see this one?” Devon showed the piece that he held. There were several cuts on it, most barely scratching the surface. “You get this with newbies who haven’t figured out how to hold the saw yet. They’re not used to the bite of the wood and it jumps in their hand. That gives you this kind of stuttering.”

Sherlock remembered John using the rented handheld circular saw to build the rabbit hutch and enclosure the summer before. His grip had been strong and confident, easily cutting sheets and boards while Sherlock and Rosie had watched on from the doorway. He’d explained the danger of the saw teeth catching on a knot in the wood, and why the clamp vice was necessary. How even a small power tool had enough strength to send a piece flying if it wasn’t used by someone who knew what they were doing. 

Another memory came fast on the heels of the first. In the morgue, examining a body of a suspected suicide victim, John had pointed out that there had been no hesitation marks on the skin around the cut that had taken the victim’s life. He had used that same word.  _ Stuttering. _ He had gone on to explain that it was seen when someone was hesitant about what they were doing, before taking the final step. John had confirmed Sherlock’s suspicion that it had been a murder, not done at the hand of someone who had doubts about their actions. 

“Have you seen something like this before?” Sherlock asked, ducking through the opening he had made earlier. Devon followed, taking his torch from his belt to hand to him. 

“My brother is a fraud investigator. I work with him when he’s looking into building accidents. You see this kind of thing when someone’s trying to get a slip and fall settlement. Sawn through bannister railings, weakened beams. That sorta thing.  _ Never  _ with someone on my team.” 

Shining the torch light at the joint structures, Sherlock caught a glare off a bit of metal. Tucked up in the corner, there was a screw that had been attached to one of the broken boards with a line of bright metal along its side. He rubbed his finger over it and the glove caught on a sliver that had been scraped back from the screw. “Hand me a-” 

A flat head screwdriver was already held out for him. 

The screws were as securely embedded as they had been since the day they were completed, but when they were removed, Sherlock saw that several of them had deep, angled gouges in their sides that almost cut straight through some of them. “Are these from everything buckling inward?” he asked, showing them to the carpenter and tucking a few into his pocket. 

“I don’t… No, they’re not. If they were, they’d be bent. These have been cut. Gimme the light?” Devon held the torch closer to a screw in his hand. In profile, the cut was perpendicular to the screw on one side, while the other was at about a forty-five degree angle, more like a check mark than a V. “It looks like these were done with a chisel. The tip would get put against the join-” He pointed to a spot above them where a chip of wood had been broken free at its end. “And hammered in. It weakens the screw.” 

“To ensure that even if the boards hadn’t split, the screws would snap under the weight.”

“And that when the boards did break, the whole thing would come straight down instead of buckling at first to give them a chance to jump away.” Picking up the first board they had checked over, Devon saw that the end of the screw had been sheared off smoothly. The wood had the same small chip cracked out of it. “This ain’t expert work, but it’s thorough. There was no way this wasn’t going to come down.” 

When Sherlock asked how it could have been done from the inside, Devon showed him that the back of the staircase was open. A cross of two-by-fours were hammered in place for structural support, but it would have been an easy thing for someone with an average build to squeeze through one of the triangles of space with their tools. 

“The whole thing couldn’t have taken more than a minute or two. It could have been done any time since yesterday morning after we tested it. Even this morning, while we were all here. The noise would’ve just gotten lost with the rest of the building sounds. We were assembling stuff all shift.” 

They climbed back out of the wreck and found that they had a small group waiting for them. “Not a word to anyone,” Sherlock whispered, and Devon nodded. He felt he could trust the man. 

Anton was there, his husband holding him from behind. His usual neat appearance was gone, replaced by worry and weariness. He’d removed his bowtie and cardigan, his shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow, clearly ready to get to work even if he didn’t know what sort of work he could do right now. Most of his cast had either fled or been taken to hospital, and his crew looked like they’d been bowled over. They had all been working together for years, and the worst accident they had witnessed had been the actor playing Bill Sikes falling off the stage during his improvised escape when the cap gun he was meant to be shot with refused to discharge. That had resulted in a sprained wrist and a witty article in the newspaper’s review of the show. To see so many serious injuries on children they had grown to care for over the weeks, they were distraught. 

“Right…” Anton wiped at his mouth, tugging his moustache for a moment. “I’ve called everyone relevant. Parents have all been informed of the situation, and the police have been told of what happened, in case they feel it is worth an investigation.” 

“Is Gloria right?” asked a lighting tech. “Was this about her?” 

“We don’t know that. But if she’s told the police of her suspicions about being stalked, I want them to know about this, so they can make their own connections. Either way, she isn’t my main priority. The safety of all of my cast is important, and she’s not the one that went off in an ambulance.” His voice cracked on the last word, and his husband’s comforting grip tightened on his waist. “Thank you, Wallace,” he whispered, patting the other man’s hand. 

“This is a terrible thing that happened. I’m not going to say But The Show Must Go On, because I hate that phrase. You lot are not expendable. Tomorrow, after we’ve had a chance to clear our heads, I’m going to send out an email to everyone about the next steps.” To the few cast members who remained, he nodded deeply. “I understand if you wish to pull out. But I just ask that you wait until we’ve all been able to gather again and discuss what happened together. And when we do, we’ll put it to a vote, about whether or not we’ll continue. With, or without our current Maria, if she refuses to come back. For now, though, let’s lock everything up and go home. Mr Williams? A word, before you leave.” 

Sherlock hung back, his fingers toying with the damaged screws in his pocket until it was just him and the directors standing on the stage. 

“Is Rosie okay?” Anton asked, twisting his bowtie in his hands. “I’ve never worked with family members before. I don’t know how to talk to you about this. What I should ask, or what you need me to say.”

“Her father is with her now. Knowing her, she’ll be getting the nurses to give her extra jelly and asking if she’ll have a cool scar from this.” Sherlock flexed his hands and let go of the bits of metal. 

“Good,” he nodded and rocked from foot to foot. “Good. That’s good. She’s… She’s a great kid, Scott. You should be very proud of her.”

“I am. We both are. Since day one.” 

Anton nodded absently again and held his hand out for Sherlock to take. “You go and be with her then, okay? I’ll send you that email, and you and her father can decide if she’s going to come to the meeting.” 

Sherlock clasped his hand, and the sharp sting of the scrapes shot up his arm. “I’ll discuss it with him, thank you.” On his way off the stage, he stooped to grab one of the smaller pieces of broken wood. 

“Scott?” 

He paused at the door to turn around. 

“Whatever it is that’s been going on here…” 

“Yes?” 

“You’re on top of it. Aren’t you?” 

Closing his eyes, Sherlock bit the inside of his lip. 

“I’m trying to be.” 

  
  
  
  
  


“It hurts,” Rosie whimpered to John and twisted her fingers around the IV tube until the paramedic took her hand away. 

The ambulance doors had just shut, and John braced himself against the wall as the vehicle lurched into movement. “I know, Princess.” As hard as it was, John let the paramedic work. He sat in the other jump seat and rested his hand on Rosie’s ankle to let her know he was there. He wasn’t good at this, just being the parent. Being the observer. When his daughter had fallen off the coffee table the year before, John had been the one to perform the x-ray, set and cast the bone in her wrist, and comfort her. He had given her stitches when her first day in gymnastics class ended with a split lip and the imprint of the crash mat’s texture on her forehead. He had given her all of her vaccinations, prescribed antibiotics, healed every scrape and bruise and sprain that came from being an energetic child with no sense of danger. Seeing someone else make bunny fingers to distract her so the IV needle could be put in the back of her hand, John wanted to shoulder in and take over. 

She didn’t  _ like  _ bunny fingers, she liked quacking duck fingers. 

“Did I step wrong?” she asked, wincing away from the pain of the needle piercing her skin. Even when it was withdrawn and the cannula and port were taped in place, the whole spot was tender and sore. She hated the rush of cold that surged up her arm when the port was opened and saline solution entered her blood stream. It felt like icy fingers trying to pull her away. 

“What do you mean, Rosebud?” John rubbed her ankle gently. The ambulance hit a pothole and equipment rattled around them. For the briefest of moments, John was in a burnt out truck in Afghanistan, holding closed the femoral artery of a young soldier calling for his mummy while an explosive went off nearby, rocking the sides of the truck and showering them both with flakes of rust. 

Rosie’s voice broke through and brought him back to the present. “During my dance. Did I do it wrong? Is that why the steps broke?” 

“Oh, no. Of course not.” John crooned and patted his pockets before finding a tissue in the backpack to offer her. Instead of using it to wipe at her eyes, she carefully tore it into long strips to braid together. “If the stairs at home can handle you galloping up and down them when they’re so old, the ones they just built should have held you up. Especially since none of you put a foot wrong.” 

Effie Munro gave a wet little laugh and looked up from her daughter. “They really were good, weren’t they?” she said, stroking the girl’s hair. 

Lucy had cried herself out, and now just hiccuped and shuddered out breaths. “Give Rosie m’ bottle,” she mumbled around the gauze tucked in front of her bottom teeth, pointing to the cluster of curled ribbon that was poking out of Effie’s large canvas tote bag. 

“Calm down bottle,” Rosie sighed and turned it over to watch glitter and stars float about. 

The paramedic whistled, impressed at how quickly it seemed to work. “We should get some of those for back here. It’d make our jobs loads easier.” 

“Which hospital are we going to?” John asked him. 

“We’ve had to divvy you guys up so no one gets overwhelmed. We’re going to the Royal, and the ones with lighter injuries are going to Mile End. I can call dispatch to find out where everyone ends up, if you need it.” Even the paramedic looked shaken up at seeing so many patients in one place. The last time he had been involved with a group like this had been at a street festival where a dozen tourists had gotten into some bad party drugs and begun hallucinating. He’d taken a punch to the face while his partner had been stabbed in the ribs with a fork by a woman shrieking about zombies. He would take patients who could be occupied with a blown up surgical glove or a cartoonish voice any day. “You two are in luck. The Play Team should still be there while you’re getting treated. You can play dress up, or get some cuddle toys to help you feel better.” 

The paramedic continued to describe the holistic play groups the hospital had until they rolled up on a grand blue and silver hospital and pulled into the ambulance bay. Once again, John was forced to hold back the urge to take control of the handover to the hospital staff. He trotted alongside Rosie’s stretcher, holding her hand. As soon as the doors slid shut behind them, the urge got too strong to control. 

“Rosie Watson, and Lucy Hebron-Munro. They were involved in a structural collapse at the theatre where they’re working on a play. They were on the bottom of the pile, and seem to have taken the worst damage. Rosie has a laceration from her hip to her collarbone up her torso, and an approximately nine inch by three inch shard of wood impaled into her left thigh. I haven’t determined how deep it’s embedded or if it’s gone into the muscle. She has sensation below the injury. The tourniquet has been in place for-” John glanced at his watch to compare the time to the one written on his daughter’s leg without breaking his stride. “Twenty-three minutes. Lucy is suffering from a laceration to the right biceps, an oral laceration, and a twisted ankle. There are six other people who were involved in the incident, but some of them will be going to a different hospital. Have beds ready for at least three more, to be safe. One will have a head injury.” 

He churned out the information as if he were the attending physician rather than a distressed parent and the hospital staff responded as such. The students and junior doctors snapped to get the paediatric trauma intake ready for their arrival, and someone handed John a mask and a box of gloves before anyone thought to question why he wasn’t in scrubs or wearing ID. 

A ward sister, used to putting doctors in their place, caught him by the elbow and wheeled him away from the curtains that pulled closed around the girls. “Thank you for getting my team up to speed.” Her tone was firm and blunt, reassuring in a way that a soft and comforting voice would never be for him right now. “But I need you to let them work. They’ll take the very best of care of your daughter. You and I both know that a parent in the trauma ward is like a-” 

“Loose horse on the battlefield,” John finished with a jerky nod. 

“There, you see? I don’t even have to whack you with a newspaper. You go sit, and I’ll have someone bring you a cup of coffee while you fill out the paperwork. If you aren’t there when they bring it, they’ll be under orders to put you in the corner.” She patted his cheek. “And they have much better things to do than track you down and watch over you, am I understood?”

“Ma’am.” 

After marching him to the waiting area, the sister bustled back to help with the intake from the next ambulance. John heard her call out to the other staff members to expect a flood, and to prepare a CAT scan for a head injury.

The waiting area was cheerfully decorated with flowers and peacefully playing wild life. A water cooler bubbled against one wall. The chairs looked comfortable enough to sit in for a long wait, but not so comfortable that a parent would fall asleep while their child was getting treated. Parenting magazines were stacked on the tables, and a box of toys sat untouched. 

“Shit,” John’s leg buckled and his knee cracked against the floor. One of the other parents approached to help him up, but he waved them off. “I… It’s okay, I’m okay. I’ll be fine. Just got a bit wobbly there.” He grabbed the arm of a chair to haul himself up and shoved his left hand in his pocket to keep the shaking from being too obvious. “I just hate hospitals,” he joked and sank into the chair with his head in his hand. 

An orderly came with documents for him to fill out and a steaming cup of brown water pretending to be coffee. John stared at them both for a long while before remembering what he was supposed to do with each of them. He sipped the coffee with a grimace and neatly printed out Rosie’s information on the forms. 

As always, Sherlock was listed as her second guardian. 

“Here, John.” 

John looked up from the form. Effie’s husband was offering him a proper coffee from a cafe and a milk sachet. “Thanks, Grant.” He opened the sachet with his teeth and drained half the cup in a few gulps, savouring the harsh burn down his throat. “There’s… In Rosie’s bag. There’s some biscuits if you want to nibble. I think there’s some carrot sticks left, too.” 

Grant shook his head, sipping his own cup of what smelled to be hazelnut flavoured cocoa, and tapped his toes on the floor. Effie had spread the contents of her tote bag out around her to consult different things for the form. With two white parents, they often ran into complications about Lucy’s identity. Grant nodded to the paperwork. “It was hell getting school set up last year. They didn’t understand why her adoption papers only listed me, and not Eff. Guess they don’t see a lot of step-parent adoptions. We had to explain like a dozen times that she’s Eff’s natural daughter, and I still don’t think they believe us. Doesn’t help she was born in the States when Effie was born here. But I suppose it must be pretty difficult for you and your Mister, with Rosie, too.” He smiled hesitantly, like someone who had worked hard to be more open about things, but still felt awkward about it and wasn’t sure if he might be trying just a little too hard. “Lu makes fun of me for not being able to sing a note, and is sure to remind me that Rosie’s father is in the play with them while her other one is in the audience too.” 

It was easier not to correct him, John knew. And he couldn’t help being flattered that he and Sherlock were being held up as the parents to envy. “Just when I’m not having to work. And don’t worry, I’m not much of a singer myself. I tried helping them practice last week, and was told to stick to reading stage directions.” 

Rolling the cup between his hands, Grant craned his neck to look past John at the wall of curtains that hid their children from view. “Any idea how it happened? I was out sneaking a smoke when it all went down.” He winced at the poor choice of words. “I just heard the crash.” 

John signed the last page of the paperwork and set the clipboard aside. “I don’t know. It could’ve been bad construction. Maybe there was a mistake in the measurements or something. I’m sure they’ll tell us when they find out. There will be an investigation, I’ve no doubt.” John scrubbed his hands on his jeans, powder from the gloves he had worn to stabilise Rosie’s leg leaving pale streaks down the denim. 

“But you saw it happen?” Grant asked. “You were there?” 

“I was down in the audience, yeah. And I helped get the kids out from under all the mess.” 

“Was it as bad as Eff says it was?” 

John gave him a long look. “Do you want the truth?” 

“I… Yeah, I really don’t think I do.” 

After the girls received their care, they were moved to a recovery room in a quieter part of the ward. The nurse assigned to them gave up trying to separate the pair when Rosie had threatened to headbutt, and set up cushions for them both on a single bed. Lucy’s splinted ankle was propped up on a pillow and they both had an IV dripping steadily providing them with pain relief. Clark was wheeled in to join them not long after, and showed off the stitches that ran along his hairline just above his temple. He tested his balance before climbing up onto the bed with his stage sisters to compare injuries. 

“Rosie got it the worst, but I think you could actually see my brain.” 

“Nuh uh,” Lucy’s sutured lip made it hard for her to speak clearly, but she wasn’t about to let that stop her. “No way your brain was out.” 

“I didn’t say out, did I? I never said out. Just that you could see it. Okay maybe not my brain, but definitely my skull. And I had to go in the big machine to take pictures inside my head to make sure nothing was broken and that it didn’t get rattled. The nurse says it was to check for brain bruises, like if you fall off your bike without a helmet. She said there’s goop in your head to keep your brain in one spot, but a big rattle will make it thump up against your skull.” He rolled his eyes. “Mum was crying the whole time. The nurse had to give her a tablet.” 

“Rosie’s dad was acting like he was the one who would be giving out the tablets.” Lucy started to grin, then thought better of it. She nudged Rosie with her good foot. 

A yawn was muffled behind a fist and Rosie rolled one shoulder in a crooked shrug. “He always does that. He was a army doctor before.” She couldn’t remember if that was part of their disguise or not, but the pain medication pumping into her arm was making things fuzzy. “Nana says he still likes to remind everyone that he was the boss.” She yawned again, and accepted the pillow Clark offered her. With it tucked behind her head, she leaned back on the plastic headboard next to Lucy. It was difficult to get comfortable. Her leg was still mostly numb and as grateful as she was not to feel whatever was going on under the bandages, Rosie wanted to curl up in a ball with her knees to her chest and stop hearing the sound of splitting planks in her memory. Listening to her friends talk about what had happened, she burrowed into the pillow and began rubbing her earlobe. 

It was dark in the room when a nurse touched her shoulder, and she realised that they had fallen asleep. “Time izzit?” she mumbled, tucking her head down to shield her eyes from the light being turned on. 

“It’s just gone ten, angel,” the nurse told her softly. “You slept through your last bag change. One of you was snoring,” she teased, earning a glare from all three. “Now, which one is Rosamund?” The nurse traced the IV line from the labelled bag into the tangle in the middle of the bed then on to Rosie’s hand. “Your father wants to take you home this evening. Your parents want the same for you, Lucy.” 

“Do I get t’ go home, too?” Clark asked. He was cocooned in a blanket and had insisted that since his legs were fine, he could stay at the foot of the bed but had sprawled the moment he had fallen asleep. 

“I’m sorry, little duck. We need to keep you here until morning, because of your head boo boo.”

“I’m not a baby,” he snapped and gave an experimental tug of his IV until Rosie clucked at him. “Well, I’m not.” 

“Head lacerations,” Rosie concentrated on the pronunciation of the word. “They’re serious. You have to stay here so someone can check you every couple of hours and make sure you still remember your name and who’s prime minister.” 

Clark frowned at her and chewed his lip. “But I dun’ know who the prime minister is now,” he confided. 

The girls were tucked into wheelchairs with pillows on either side to keep them upright while the nurse removed the cannulas from their hands. “Well, who’s your favourite footie player?” Rosie asked, snatching her hand away from the cotton ball that the nurse was trying to tape to her skin. 

“That’s easy; Marcus Rashford.” The boy looked confused for a moment about why that might matter, then grinned shakily. “I get it. It’s to show that I can still remember stuff.”

“Zactly. But they’ll keep asking you stuff like that. And probably wake you up lots, too.” Rosie leaned over as far as the chair allowed and tapped her fist against Clark’s shoulder. “At least you get breakfast in bed tomorrow.” 

As they were wheeled out, the boy’s parents pushed into the room. His mother choked back a sob and tried to clutch at him until the nurse ushered her to the cot where they would sleep that night. 

“Is my daddy still here?” Rosie twisted to look up at the porter. 

“He’s been pacing the halls, kiddo. We tried to get him to go in and sit with you, but he wouldn’t stay in one spot for more than a few minutes and was worried it would wake you up, so he kept getting up and wandering around.” Chuckling, the porter tipped the chair back on its rear wheels and imitated a motorcycle engine as he pushed her down the hall to the family waiting area. “And snapping at the doctors.” 

John was sitting in the corner of the waiting room with a unicorn puzzle spread out on the table in front of him. With his hair standing up in messy spikes and the shadow of a beard haunting his cheeks, he looked like he hadn’t slept in days. There was a coffee stain on the leg of his jeans and his fingers trembled while he searched for the correct place for the puzzle piece he held. 

Seeing him, the stress and the pain and the fear that had been pushed down bubbled up in Rosie and she hiccuped before beginning to cry. She wanted to be picked up and protected and just a little crushed. More than anything, she wanted to be home where everything smelled like her family and the only time disinfectant came out was when Sherlock had been careless with a vegetable peeler and no one spoke in hushed, anxious whispers. The hiccups turned into a whimper and she held her hands out to John, beckoning with her fingers. 

“Oh,” John dropped the puzzle piece and slammed his knee into the table in his haste to stand. “Oh, my little lass. I didn’t know they were going to wake you. I should have been there when you got up.” He gave a nod to the porter who set the brakes on the wheelchair so John could safely lift Rosie out of it. She twisted her fists into his shirt collar and wept silently against his shoulder as he swayed them slowly from side to side. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.” He had to position her across his chest on her side to keep from bumping at her thigh or the injuries down her front. Even with the pain medication on board, she would be sore for days. 

A similar reunion was going on at the other side of the room with Lucy and her parents, and Rosie peeked over John’s shoulder to wave goodbye to her friend. “We’ll call you,” Effie promised, rubbing her daughter’s back. “To check on how she’s recovering. And to set up a proper sleepover for these two. Pizza and DVDs, not oxygen readers and codeine. Hopefully they’ll have everything sorted out at the theatre by then.” She leaned forward to let Lucy and Rosie touch foreheads before gathering their things. 

“Are you ready to go home, Rosebud?” John shouldered her backpack and shifted her to lay across his arm like she was an infant. “Nana is going to be here soon in her car.” 

“Sherlock isn’t coming?” 

“He’s at home, love. Waiting for you. He had work to do for the case, to find out what happened and who did this. You know that’s important, don’t you?” 

Rosie hummed instead of nodding.

“Besides, he hates hospitals. You would have had to comfort him the whole time, instead of focusing on getting better. He wouldn’t have wanted that for you.” He followed the cheery animal murals to lead them out of the hospital into the patient pickup area in front. 

“And I read the signs,” Rosie mumbled as a sports car pulled up. “They only want one parent in to stay with patients.” She let her grandmum fuss and croon and bundle her into her booster seat without protest, even accepting the ratty hand crocheted granny square blanket that made her skin itch with only a quick grimace until it was tucked around her. 

Instead of trying to wheedle out a chance to drive, John climbed into the back seat next to Rosie and stroked her hair to try and keep her at ease. Each bump and pothole jostled her against the seat, making her yelp out in distress. “I hate this,” she eventually complained, squeezing at her father’s hand until her knuckles ached. “It hurts. My leg hurts, and my tummy, and I want to go to bed.” 

Mrs Hudson kept away from the main roads to avoid traffic and pedestrians, but it meant making more turns that knocked Rosie into the sides of her seat. She tried to hold herself together, but the last bump had made the bandage tug at her sutures and she choked out a quiet sob. Finally, John grit his teeth. “Just go up City Road.” At the rate they were creeping it would take nearly an hour to get home, and they would end up getting stuck in the middle of Camden with partiers trying to rut against the car’s exhaust pipe. “If anyone gets in front of us, run them over. I’ll say they jumped.” He pressed a kiss to the top of Rosie’s head and made a duck out of his fingers to peck kisses over her cheeks and nose. 

“What would Maria say right now, darling?” Mrs Hudson asked in the rear view mirror. “Would she suggest thinking about your favourite things? Raindrops, and white dresses?” 

“But I hate those things!” wailed the girl. She wanted to kick out in frustration but her leg was in too much pain. 

“That’s okay,” John said in his closest approximation of a duck’s quack, moving his fingers in time to the words. “You just have to think of  _ your  _ favourite things. What are they?” 

Rosie clenched her jaw in concentration then began to sing, flatly at first. “Porridge’s hopping. And dinosaurs with feathers. Sherlock playing violin and him when he’s laughing.” The tension in her jaw slowly started to ease away. “Biscuits are baking in the kitchen downstairs. Stickers with fuzz that smell like strawberries. Sherlock telling me that I’m so smart.” She rocked forward and back in the booster seat in time with the song. Her lip was still wobbling, but her voice picked up the tune she knew so well by now. “When Nana hugs tight. And Daddy brings flowers. When Uncle Greg gets those doughnuts with sprinkles and shares. Grass stains and finger paints and-” She laughed weakly, looking up at John. “And whiskers on kittens.” 

For the next twenty minutes, she repeated her list, adding new things as she remembered them. John offered suggestions when she began to falter, reminding her of brain teasers, dandelion wishes, and bubble baths until they pulled to a stop in front of 221. 

The lights were on upstairs, showing that Sherlock was still awake and working and waiting. 


	11. Ghost Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feeling guilty over Rosie and the other children being injured, Sherlock takes to his lab equipment. He has plenty of physical evidence to work with, he just needs to make sense of it. If only he could shut up the nagging doubts telling him that this was all his fault.   
> Meanwhile, John makes an important decision about the future.

John had kept Sherlock updated with encouraging messages from the hospital, but he still couldn’t allow himself to relax. Even a photo of Rosie sleeping peacefully wasn’t enough for him to stop working. He needed to find out who wanted their client out of the production so badly that they would put children in harm’s way. 

The moment he had gotten back to the flat, he had taken his magnifying glass to every inch of the board looking for trace evidence. Fibres were pulled loose and set on glass slides, cut marks were compared to images in his files from past cases, and his search history was flooded with pictures of tools. 

A comparison on a hardware website further confirmed that the theatre’s construction crew had not been involved with the sabotage. They had used high quality materials, and not skimped. If someone on the crew had wanted to bring the set down, they wouldn’t have needed to damage it in secret, simply loosened joints or done shoddy work. 

He exchanged emails with an old friend from InterPol, stationed in Paris, about gouge marks from a variety of chisels that had been used in murders and assaults. Working together they narrowed the chisel used on the screws to one of four that his friend had in his system. All were high end, expensive, and usually purchased from independent speciality shops rather than department stores. The one Sherlock had the best feeling about had been used in the murder of a rich dentist from California and the check mark shaped indents in his sternum almost perfectly matched that of the one on the screw under his lens. 

There was a cup of tea going cold at his elbow, and he didn’t know when it had been placed there. He was vaguely aware of Mrs Hudson’s voice at some point but hadn’t registered what she was saying, but there had been a jangling of metal on metal.  _ Car keys _ a part of his brain told him. He was too busy examining a piece of snagged thread he had plucked from one end of the piece of wood. 

“Trilobular,” Sherlock murmured aloud and tried not to frown when neither John nor Rosie coaxed him into elaborating. “So a man made fibre. Typically found in carpeting, but in the manufacturing of textiles for garments, trilobe fibres offer a sheen to fabric threads that you don’t find in natural materials like cotton or flax due to the light refraction. White, possibly light grey.” He drummed his nails on the table and tried to remember what the actors had been wearing. 

Rosie, faded denim blue jeans and a green short sleeved top with Kermit the Frog on the front. The jeans had a deep red stain down one leg. No. Not yet. That came after. Sherlock shook his head to chase away the image. He couldn’t get distracted now. 

Lucy, purple leggings and a black skater dress with the words Born To Dance in shimmering gold. Home made. 

Clark, grey athletic shorts, blue sweatshirt. If he hadn’t been in the middle, he would have been as torn up as the girls. 

Nadiya and Becky, both in ballet leotards of black and light pink with shorts on top. They had begun dressing the same soon after their first rehearsal. 

Andrew, dark blue joggers and a white vest. Terry cloth wristbands. The headband he wore had possibly protected his scalp. 

Stephanie, pink tiger striped leggings and a shirt with a cartoon milkshake complaining about a yard full of boys. The cardigan she normally wore had been knotted around her waist. 

Anna, a black leotard with thick multicolour woollen leg warmers and a baggy threadbare shirt that might have been white at one time but was now mostly grey and stained with grape juice. 

Plenty of man-made fibres in each of their outfits, but none that he felt confident matching to the thread. He marked the slide as being from the suspect and set it down next to his cold mug. Pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, Sherlock stretched back until something popped along his spine, and he groaned. A single torn thread wouldn’t be enough to scare someone into confessing when confronted with that kind of meagre evidence. 

The only other piece he had was the sample of glue from the letter to Gloria’s home. 

It was still too sticky to try to pick traces out of the glue without damaging it beyond recovery, so Sherlock put the entire thing on a glass slide. At the very edge of the smear were irregular flecks of greyish-beige. “Flakes of skin,” he said, making a note. “Possibly dandruff. Did they scratch their head while making the note?” Using his tweezers he moved the bit of paper to examine a new spot. He switched the objective and waited for the image to come back into focus. 

In the field was a scattering of shapes that looked similar to coffee beans. Sherlock pursed his lips. It was a pollen, but not from a native species. When he couldn’t find any images of it in his Mind Palace, he went to his computer. The search quickly supplied him with Tiger Lily. He easily recognised the pollens from geraniums and roses embedded in the glue as well. 

What left him grinning mirthlessly though, were the sharp angular fibres that were stuck on top of some of the other objects. 

Wood dust. 

“Gotcha, you bastard,” he murmured. Attaching the camera mount, Sherlock snapped a series of photos of each of the elements he had identified. He would need them to prove that the writer of the threat and the saboteur were one in the same person, and responsible for half a dozen children lying in hospital beds. 

Stretching again, he looked up to see that he had been working for hours. The flat was silent. It was such a rare thing lately, for him to be there entirely alone. 

He hated it. 

Sherlock pulled a face as he drained the cold mug of tea and pushed back from the kitchen table. There was nothing more he could do with the evidence he had on hand, and if he didn’t find something productive to do, he would end up sinking into his own head and getting stuck there. 

Two at a time, he took the stairs up to Rosie’s bedroom. Her rabbit slammed her back paws into the floor in annoyance that it was one of the adults and not her girl who had come in. “The feeling is mutual,” Sherlock snapped and began stripping the blankets and sheets from the bed. 

It was physical work, but simple. Exactly what he needed. He hauled the mattress out into the hallway to keep it out of the way, and removed the slats from the bed frame. Even attached by straps of heavy canvas, the slats clattered and twisted and got away from him until he dropped them with a curse in a heap on the floor to be dealt with later. 

He had been there when John had bought the bed. It was Rosie’s fourth birthday present. The only thing she had wanted that year was a Big Girl Bed, sick of sleeping in her converted crib. At the furniture shop the sales clerk had shown them every style of frame in the catalogue, trying to point them toward the more expensive models with brand names. In the end, they had selected a basic wooden frame with a solid headboard. After refusing to waste money on delivery and arguing over a shared pizza about how to assemble it, John had painted it glossy white and put his daughter’s favourite types of stickers all over. As a last minute touch, Sherlock stencilled a creeping vine of roses along the safety rail and glowered at John when he praised the work. 

If he’d known how heavy it would be to move on his own, Sherlock might have gone for the metal frame. 

He dragged it to the other side of the room, as far from the air vent as he could get it. Putting the support slats back in place almost undid him, but he wasn’t going to allow himself to be outsmarted by a piece of furniture. 

“If you’re not going to help, stop complaining,” he growled at Porridge, backing into the room with the mattress. She thumped the floor once more to make her point. 

The bedding proved to be another obstacle all together. The fitted sheets didn’t, and he couldn’t find one of the clips that held it snug. He didn’t know which end of the duvet was the top, and the very idea of a bed skirt was baffling. After fighting with it for several long minutes, Sherlock knelt on the floor in defeat. 

Feeling utterly useless. 

Gathering Rosie’s pillow to his chest, Sherlock rocked back onto his rump, sitting so hard it knocked a gasp out of him. 

He didn’t know how long he sat there hugging the pillow and berating himself, but the sound of something heavy hitting the floor behind him knocked him out of his downward spiral. Sherlock glanced back to see Porridge had hopped over the wall of her enclosure. She leapt into the air, twisting and kicking before landing again. “What’s going on with you?” he asked when she did it twice more then stood on her back feet with her ears trailing to the floor. 

A light shone in through the window and stayed there. “A car,” Sherlock said before it clicked. He scrambled to his feet and tossed the pillow onto the bed. Putting the rabbit back into her hutch, he dashed down the stairs just in time to catch the door as it opened. 

“Is she all right?” Sherlock took the bag from John’s shoulder, and unwrapped the blanket from around Rosie. “Did she have to go into surgery? Are the other children all right? How bad is it?” 

“Here, why don’t you take her and you can see for yourself?” John shifted his daughter carefully to let Sherlock pick her up. 

Her eyes were red and puffy, still glassy from crying but her cheeks were dry. Sherlock was hesitant to take her from John, but she held out her hands and leaned forward, making the decision for him. “Are you in much pain, Watson?” he asked, backing up to the stairs to lead the way into the flat. 

“Not a lot. They gave me something to make it feel better.” She nudged her head under Sherlock’s chin and sniffled. “I got a cream from my tummy, and they put shots in my leg. It went numb.” 

“Lidocaine,” John mouthed over Rosie’s head, miming an injection after putting her bags down. One was her backpack, the other the personal belongings plastic hospital bag that held her shirt and torn jeans which the doctors had cut off of her to get to the injury. Between the cuts and the blood stains, they were beyond repair but he knew that Rosie would want to keep them to salvage what was left to put in her craft box. She was just like Sherlock when it came to keeping strange mementos. She had asked for the wood that the doctors had removed from her body but was turned down.

“I’m familiar with the treatment. When I’ve gotten that sort of shot, it burns first before it goes numb.” Sherlock stroked Rosie’s hair back from her face as he looked down at her. “I imagine your leg hurt badly enough that it masked the burning sensation.” 

“The doctor says it was shock.” 

“Did they give you a blanket?” 

Rosie looked between Sherlock and her father, puzzling at the strange expression they both shared. “No, Nana did.” she mumbled with a yawn. 

“Come on, Sher. I think we should tuck her into bed, don’t you?” John stepped forward to rest a hand on Sherlock’s side. “It’s been a fu- bloody long day for all of us.” 

“I’ve made some changes,” Sherlock explained on the way up to the girl’s bedroom. “I didn’t want the neighbours to disrupt your sleep, especially tonight.” Pushing the door open, he held his breath anxiously. He was sure he’d done it incorrectly. Put the bed in the wrong corner, or arranged the button lights in a way that would cast sinister shadows on the opposite wall. 

But Rosie flicked her fingers happily and patted him on the chest. “No more voices under the bed?” 

“I think if we put your bean bag in front of the vent, it will muffle any possible noises, but still let air flow into the room. The only thing under your bed now is your board game collection.” 

Porridge had escaped again and made herself at home in the middle of Rosie’s bed. She allowed John to roll her over to make room while Sherlock turned back the covers and set the pillow where it belonged. “Brush my hair?” Rosie asked, needing the distraction from John changing the bandage on her leg. 

Sherlock sat at the head of the bed with a comb and hair ties. He focused on his hands, allowing himself just the quickest of glances down at the injury. John sang a lullaby as he worked, deftly snipping the gauze and folding it away to expose a three inch line of colourful stitches. 

“Can we trust you not to lick at the stitches, or do I have to put the cone on you, like when Porridge had her spay?” John teased. 

“I don’t think I could sleep in a cone.” She leaned back on Sherlock’s chest and yawned again. “Just wanna sleep.” 

“Of course, Princess. Your pain meds should last you til morning, but I’ve got your monitor. If you wake up and need more, just call.” Turning on the output for the baby monitor, John hung it up on the bed frame next to her pillow rather than leaving it on the bedside table like he normally did. He wanted to be able to hear the moment she woke up. “I’ll come running.” 

Rosie turned her head to accept the kisses to her cheek then held her arms open so her pet could snuggle in next to her. “Ni-night,” she mumbled. “Love you.” 

“We love you, too.” John left one of the pink lights on, and kept the door open a crack. 

In the hallway, Sherlock sagged against the wall and dragged his hands over his face. “Tell me the truth now. _Is_ she all right?” 

John walked him down the stairs and set him up on the sofa. He went into the kitchen to make Sherlock a rye and ginger. He poured himself a straight whiskey over a chunk of ice he chipped out of a block from the freezer. “It could have been a lot worse,” he told him when he sat next to Sherlock and squirmed until the other man was forced to lift his arm to make room for him against his side. “The shard of wood was splintered, so they spent about an hour removing all the fragments. It probably wouldn’t have stayed embedded if she had been wearing something other than jeans. But it might also have gone in much deeper if she wasn’t. So it’s about fifty/fifty about whether or not it was a good thing.” John nursed his drink and tucked his head lower so he could listen to Sherlock’s heartbeat. “The surgeon says that there was no serious muscle damage, but it went through the Sub Q layer, and was pretty long, so it needed the full sutures instead of butterflies. I tried to explain to him that I know all of that, but I think he was on auto-pilot.” 

“Dealing with distraught parents, I’m sure he was.” Sherlock rolled his cold glass over his pounding temple. “Will she be all right, though?” 

“The shock was the worst of it, I think. When it started to wear off and she realised that she was hurt, it made it all feel worse. Being scared didn’t help matters, either. A couple days of pampering, and being carried around the flat, and she’ll be perfectly fine. Little bruised, and probably itchy around the injury, but nothing to write home about.” John caressed Sherlock’s chest, frowning when the reassurance didn’t help to slow his racing pulse. “She’ll be fine, Sherlock. I promise. It won’t even give her a limp after the sutures come out. This time next week, and we’ll be having to drag her out of a tree or off the bookshelf.” He sat back and looked up at him. “She’s okay.” 

“She might not have been.” Sherlock knocked the drink back, almost in one, and glared at the rest left in the glass. “This could have been so much worse, John. She could have been the one to hit her head. Or if the shard had been a few inches inward it could have severed her artery. Or what cut her abdomen could have impaled her. Or-”

“Or we could have been hit by a bus on our way to the theatre. Or fallen down the stairs here. Or she could have choked on her breakfast this morning. We can’t sit here and think of all the thousands of ways she could be injured on a daily basis. We’d go mad. Madder.” 

“That’s not the point, John. I’m not in control of those things. I didn’t put her in harm’s way over breakfast.” 

“Well, at least not unless you’re making waffles.” 

“Stop trying to make a joke of this!” Sherlock snapped. He lifted the glass, ready to slam it down on the coffee table, and thought better of it with a quick glance up to the stairs. Setting it down, he sighed. “It’s my fault she was there in the first place. I put her up on that stage, to make this case easier. For God’s sake, I’ve all but ignored the case itself, because I’ve been having so much fun in the theatre. I forgot that I was meant to be working, and she could have been killed as a result. I put her in danger, and look what happened.” He stabbed his finger at the ceiling. “We could have lost her today.” 

John took Sherlock’s hand, caressing it lightly. “We didn’t. And you didn’t put her in danger. This is different than if we’d brought her to a crime scene, or gone chasing after a murderer with her in a pram. Neither of us knew that she would be invited to audition. We thought it would just be the acting day camp. She was up on that stage, because it’s where she wanted to be.”

“But I used her to-” 

“And I use her to get better cinema seats, to get through checkout lines faster, and to scam extra free stuff when things are being given away at intersections. It’s the benefit of having the cutest kid in the world on your hip.” John gave Sherlock a crooked smile and continued to stroke his hand. “You know as well as I do, that she doesn’t do anything unless she wants to. We stopped being the bosses around here the moment she learned to speak.” 

“It’s still not the same. You didn’t let yourself get distracted. I should have been able to close this case in a few hours. We could have been on to other ones by now, and no one would have been hurt because of my failures.” Sherlock tugged his hand but John didn’t give it up. “How can you not hate me right now? I put your daughter in the hospital.” 

“I don’t remember you being up on the stage and shoving her off that set. Or sneaking away to dismantle it when my back was turned. Our daughter-” 

“John…”

“Shut up, Sherlock.  _ Our  _ daughter was on that stage because she has the skill for it. Just like you do. Yes, I’m upset that she was hurt. Of course I am. I’m angry that she was hurt. But not with you. With the person who caused the ‘accident’, never with you.” He turned Sherlock’s hand over and brought it to his lips to press a kiss to the centre of his palm. The scrapes were still raw. “I’ve loved watching the two of you perform together. Watching you rehearse lines and sing together. I don’t want what happened today to scare you away from this. I know you’re never going to give up being a detective, but you were made for the stage, too. It makes you happy. Maybe if you hadn’t been trying to decide between being the actor and being the detective, you might have seen the problem with the set before it happened. Just be both. Be you. You’ll see what you were missing.” 

“It’s entirely unfair that you’re able to do that,” Sherlock sneered. He stopped trying to take back his hand. “You can’t just say some sweet words and make things better.” 

John rolled his shoulder and kissed Sherlock’s pulse. “It seems like I can.” His heartbeat had begun to slow to a strong and steady pace. “I love you.” 

His heartbeat flared again under John’s lips. 

“Yes. You. You erm. You said that.” 

“I quite like saying it. I’d like to do it more often, in fact.” John straightened and reached for Rosie’s backpack to fetch out her small first aid kit. “It feels natural. Hold your hand open.” He cleaned the scrapes and spread soothing ointment on the worst of them. The heel of Sherlock’s hand needed a plaster, and John wasn’t the least surprised that he hadn’t taken care of it while he was on his own. “Is that okay?” 

“It’s a Jurassic Park plaster.” 

“I meant me saying it, idiot.” John grinned and closed the kit. “Are you comfortable with it?” 

“I… I don’t…” Sherlock tugged on his hair, trying to gather his thoughts enough to get them out. He’d never be what John needed in life. He needed someone calm, and centred, and able to give him a good future. He had a child to think about, and couldn’t be selfish. Sherlock was a danger, had been from the day they’d met. Sooner or later it would catch up with him, and leave John grieving once more. John needed normal. Safe. A good parent to his child and a happy spouse to look after him in the evenings. Sherlock could never give either of them that. 

John waited patiently for Sherlock to try to process. He tidied the kit away and took out the leftovers of the lunch Sherlock had packed for Rosie that morning. Sherlock was the only one who ever got the sandwiches the perfect blend of peanut butter and jam that she would agree to eat. He had shown John the trick of keeping sliced apples from going brown and how to make sure crisps didn’t get crushed in their zip top bag. Munching on a carrot stick, John put the rest of the sandwich in the fridge alongside a carton of chocolate milk and the head of broccoli that was supposed to have been part of that night’s dinner. Sherlock had long since agreed to keeping body parts and mould samples in their own refrigerator in the basement. He returned to the living room and sat with his leg tucked up, his chin resting on his knee. When Sherlock’s eyes came back into focus, he smiled. “Welcome back.” 

“How long…?” 

“Just a few minutes. You okay?” 

“I’m not sure if I can answer that. John, I’m not… I’m not good enough for you.” It sounded pitiful coming out of his mouth, but he had to say it. “I don’t deserve you.” 

“Well, I am pretty fantastic.” 

Sherlock pursed his lips in annoyance for a moment until they quivered into a smile, then a grin. Of course John knew how to deal with him. He always did. Whenever he was sitting up on his high horse and looking down on the idiots around him, John would come and cut him down by the knees. When he was wallowing in self hatred, he would show him just how amazing he thought he was. And when he was feeling dark and low, the bastard would go and make him laugh. “You know that’s not fair,” he complained when he got his giggles under control. 

John reached out and brushed his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, tucking it behind his ear so he could cradle the back of his head. He drew him close for a chaste kiss. “I don’t play fair.” He put their foreheads together and closed his eyes. “I’m going to keep saying it. When I kiss you. When we’re at a crime scene. When you wake up in the morning. When we’re making breakfast. I’m going to say it over and over and so often you’ll get bored of it. Then I’ll say it some more.” 

“I don’t think I could possibly get bored of it. But we can put that to the test.” Sherlock still knew he could never deserve John, but for now he would hold onto it until something pried them apart. 

“There’s something else.” John opened his eyes and lifted his head to give Sherlock a serious look. “I know it’s rushing things. Then again, look at how we’ve paced things. Maybe having a time table is for  _ other  _ people. I’ve been thinking about this, even before last night. What happened today though, it really brought it home for me.” 

“What is it, John?” 

“I want you to adopt Rosie. Officially.” 

“You can’t mean that. No one in their right mind would think that I would be a good father. Hell, I’m sure half the people who know us have been running a wager as to when I put poison in her cereal to test out a theory. Or leave her somewhere to go to a crime scene.” 

John shook his head and finished off his drink. The ice had melted enough that the burn down his throat was mild. “What’s her blood type?” 

“B positive,” Sherlock replied immediately. “Not afraid of needles and fascinated by seeing it go into the vacuum tube. Blood needs to be drawn from the back of her hand or the side of her wrist, never the inside of her elbow after an overzealous medical student used the wrong gauge needle.” 

“How does nap time go?” John looked into the glass and gave it a twirl to make the ice clink against the sides. 

“The Toothbrush Song, followed by stretches. Mr Trunks if it’s a cool day, but if it’s warm she likes to sleep with Monkey Shines. No socks, full stomach, empty bladder.” The answer came just as quick as the first. 

“Yeah, interesting. Aller-” 

“Allergic to dust mites, ragweed, and cedar. Not allergic, but sensitive to cleaning scents. Can’t tolerate acrylic yarns, cotton balls, or fleece. Is nauseated by the scent of cooking fish and anything that crunches when there shouldn’t be a crunch. Can’t eat meat if it’s attached to a bone, particularly chicken. Hates sunscreen lotion, needs the spray. Must face forward in a vehicle, ideally in the centre seat so she can see out the front window if she is in a car. If in a train, she must be in the front carriage so she doesn’t see them moving out of a straight line. Bubblegum flavoured toothpaste, never mint. Milk must be 2% or lower, and sandwiches taste better cut into triangles, not squares.” 

John was stifling a chuckle. “What’s school like?” 

“Always pack an extra pair of trousers or kilt into her bag. She will inevitably spill something on her first pair, or trip into a puddle. She keeps extra shirts in her cubby in the classroom. Mr Trunks stays in her bag to guard her lunch. A packed lunch, always. Her spelling is improving, and her maths is top of the class. Reading comprehension has improved greatly since she was allowed to use stickers to mark the direction her eyes are supposed to go. Regularly gets Time Out Time for squirming, but this has improved since I got her wheeled shoes so she can slide them back and forth without squeaking the soles of her trainers. Works far better with three dimensional concepts, which has meant she uses building blocks in most lessons. The end of day bell is at three-fifteen, and if she doesn’t get at least fifteen minutes on the play structure outside, she wants to run the whole way home.” Sherlock blinked quickly and seemed to come out of a daze. 

“Tell me again you think it’d be a bad idea,” John said with a smirk. He set the glass aside and stretched his hand out to brush the backs of his fingers down Sherlock’s cheek. “Can I ask again?” 

Sherlock pressed into John’s hand, covering it with his own. “If you promise that you won’t regret it.” 

“Will you adopt our daughter? Make it official?” 

“I won’t make her call me Papa, or whatever the alternatives might be. I can stay Sherlock to her, if she’s not ready yet. But yes, John. I would love to.” The words came out stuttered and shaking. His eyes were bright with unshed tears and he was afraid that moving would make them spill over his lashes. He couldn’t entirely block out the nagging voice in the back of his mind that insisted that John was just toying with him, but much louder were the ones showing him the future they could build together, complete with teacher’s meetings, school recitals, and china patterns. Things that he had once thought were entirely beyond his reach even when he was pretending that they weren’t for him. “Oh god,” he groaned and turned his head to hide his face against John’s hand. 

“What’s the matter?” John asked, not sure if he should be concerned or amused. 

“I’m  _ romantic _ ,” he groaned louder. “I’m  _ soppy _ . I want to go test drive a hatchback and intimidate teachers who aren’t helping Watson reach her full potential. When did this happen?” 

Grinning, John pinched Sherlock’s chin lightly between thumb and forefinger to pull him close enough to kiss. “I think it started a little bit before Rosie was born. It’s funny, the things you choose to forget about for convenience’s sake. Or to make yourself feel less like a half melted marshmallow peep. You were right there looking on comparison websites for the best safety seats, reading books on alternative teaching methods, and coming up with recipes to accommodate her tastes. Hell, love, I’ve seen your Pinterest boards. They’re all hairstyling tutorials and ideas for throwing themed birthday parties. You’ve been in the running for Father of the Year since the very beginning. It just feels good now to be able to make it official.” 

He kissed him again, moving from his lips to his cheeks and up along his forehead. “And you’ve always had a beautiful romantic streak. How can I forget our first date? The candlelight, the lovely meal, the excitement-” 

“The serial killer.” 

“Part of the magic, is all.” John shook his head with a giggle and swiped his thumb over Sherlock’s jaw. “You definitely knew how to seduce a man.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “If that was true, we’d be celebrating our copper anniversary by now. And I wouldn’t have gotten hit by a car in an attempt to impress you.” 

“I think it was two cars, if I remember correctly. And that wasn’t what impressed me.” 

“You have to admit, it did a bit.” 

“No, it made me realise that you needed someone to keep you from burning yourself up from the inside and help you stay grounded. You needed an audience.” He put his forehead to Sherlock’s again and searched his eyes before kissing him. The tears were gone, but they were still bright and shining. “Someone to cheer you on and call for an encore.” John’s hands moved to Sherlock’s waist as he leaned closer with each kiss until they were flat out on the sofa. Sherlock’s legs parted to make room for his hips. “And I needed you to help me pick myself up off the ground and start to stand upright again.” 

“I didn’t do anything, John.” Sherlock wound his long legs around John and rubbed his heels along the backs of his thighs. “Not really.” 

“You let me into your life. That was what I needed.” 

Their kisses were slow and gentle, stopping entirely for long stretches so they could simply gaze at one another in amazement. They didn’t speak beyond the soft murmuring of names until John finally rose back to his knees. “Let’s go to bed,” he whispered and stood up. 

Sherlock followed him to the bedroom. The bedding was still tossed and rumpled from that morning’s rough housing, and his shed clothes were on the floor to remind them of what they’d already done. 

It was different this time. Slower, sweeter. Almost silent. John’s left arm still had the faintest of tremors and his leg quaked if he held it straight. Sherlock lifted his partner’s shirt off and away then guided him down onto the bed to climb atop him. He tucked his head into the side of John’s neck to kiss him there. His aftershave had long since worn away to leave a pleasantly salty sweat-rich aroma behind and the dark shadow across his cheek grazed at Sherlock’s sensitive skin. Hands went to Sherlock’s trousers to try to work open the button fly, but they were quivering too much to get purchase. “Let me,” Sherlock knelt up above John and stripped his shirt over his head by grabbing at the bottom and peeling it up. The sharp intake of breath was just what he’d hoped for and plucked the chords of his vanity. He rested his fingers on John’s chest and rolled his hips in a slow, sinuous motion that moved up his spine. 

The confidence he’d been lacking the night before had come from learning John’s body, his responses, and seeing his attraction plain and on display in the form of a throbbing erection and a deep red flush of colour creeping down from his hairline to his chest.  _ Sherlock  _ was doing that to John, and the knowledge made him smug in a way no deduction ever would. Even when he fumbled trying to get his trousers and pants off in one smooth move, he distracted John by moaning loudly while running his fingers back through his hair and rocking from knee to knee so he could kick them off. 

Taking charge like this didn’t come naturally to him, but performing for John did. Each time the other moaned out his name, or told him how stunning he was, Sherlock’s confidence grew a little more. John was pliant under his hands, lifting his hips obediently when ordered so his jeans could be tugged off and arching into the kisses down his torso. 

Sherlock knelt above his hips and caressed his palms up John’s body then down his arms until he reached his hands to link their fingers together. He used the hold for support and balance so he could move his own body in time with John’s shuddering breaths. With the only attention paid to their erections being the warm and gliding duel between their bodies, it was achingly slow. Their tightly wound springs had been tripped the night before, so they were able to take their time without it driving them wild. Sherlock would stop altogether to lie flush to John’s chest and kiss him deeply, breathing his name against his lips. Each time John fell out of the rhythm, Sherlock tightened his knees on his body and gradually coaxed him back in line. 

Minutes, days, aeons passed before Sherlock finally let go with one hand to reach down and wrap his long fingers around both swollen shafts in a single grip. He paid more attention to John so he could watch the pleasure bloom on his face as the beginning of his orgasm began to boil inside of him without his own to distract him. John bit his lips and gripped the bedding with his free hand. His breath came out in hoarse gusts. He lifted his knees to plant on the mattress for more leverage and snapped his hips up into Sherlock’s hand. Semen surged out to streak across John’s abdomen and pool in his navel. 

“Here,” John insisted before he could get his voice under control. “Up. Here.” When words failed him, he cupped Sherlock by the rump and tugged him up against his face. His long tongue lapped and curled around the deep pink of the head before he swallowed as much as he was able. His cheeks hollowed with each long pull that filled his mouth with bitter, salty seed. 

Sherlock had to brace his hand on the wall above the headboard, his nails scraping down the wall paper as he began to collapse. The aftershocks rocked his body several times but John didn’t complain when it jerked his hips forward and deeper into his mouth. Sherlock could feel his pleased grin before he grudgingly let go enough to breathe. 

His lips were wet and glossy. John ran his tongue over them to make sure he hadn’t spilled a droplet. It was an acquired taste, but John loved it. He dragged his fingers through his own mess and brought them to his mouth to sample the differences. 

“Well?” Sherlock asked shakily, sinking down to lie on John’s chest. 

“You’re thicker, and saltier. More bitter. It might be because you haven’t eaten much today, and probably had a full pot of coffee to yourself.” John sucked each finger clean. “Further sampling needed for a proper analysis. Maybe I’ll start a spreadsheet.” 

Sherlock melted and flowed down to John’s side, snuggling up into the crook of his arm. “God, I love you.” 

John paused with his fingers still against his lips. Slowly, he began to smile and he tightened his hold around Sherlock’s shoulders. “I could hear those words everyday for the rest of my life, and I don’t think I could ever get enough.” 

“Mention spreadsheets and analytical experimentation again, and you’ll be hearing it more often.” He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm before it cooled and gave him a chill. It was a mild enough night that he could sleep with just a sheet and John’s warmth beside him to keep him comfortable. 

“We could run tests. Chart sugar levels.” Despite still being breathless, John tried to pitch his voice low and sultry.

“I think you’re teasing me.” 

“Adjust for variables. Log results. Publish our findings on your blog.” 

Sherlock hid his face in John’s chest and pulled the sheet over his head. “Yes, you’re definitely teasing me.” 

“We’ll call it Analytical Findings On The Influential Properties Of The Pineapple. It’ll get us in the British Medical Journal. Famous across the land, we’ll do tours. We’ll-Ooph!” John reached down to rub his pinched thigh. “No good?” 

“Absolutely terrible.” Hiding his face away wasn’t enough to mask the smile in his voice. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're nearing the end!


	12. Ovation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cast and crew meet to discuss the future of the production. Gloria announces that she is going to pull out, feeling that her safety can't be guaranteed. Sherlock announces his deductions and confronts the person responsible for all the chaos and injuries on set.

“Is this your card?” 

Sherlock held up the Queen of Hearts from the top of the deck.

Rosie, sitting on a pile of cushions on the floor with her injured leg stretched out in front of her, examined the card then shook her head. “Nope.” 

Frowning, Sherlock looked at it for a moment before returning it to the deck. He gave them all another shuffle that would have been at home on a high stakes poker table. Spreading them out, he picked up the Five of Clubs. “Is this your card?” 

Rosie giggled and shook her head again. 

The Ten of Diamonds. 

“No!” 

They had been sprawled out on the living room floor together for most of the morning. Rosie had led an archaeological expedition amongst the pillows and blankets to discover a previously unknown specimen of  _ Lockasaurus Detectivi _ which looked shockingly like one of her rahonavis models painted vibrant purple and blue with black crest feathers. Sherlock had read aloud from some of John’s blog posts of their earlier cases, acting out the dramatic bits to her amusement. After a couple episodes of Kratt’s Creatures, he had brought out the pack of cards initially to start a game of Go Fish, but the opportunity to show off had been too enticing. 

“Are you certain you memorised the card when you picked it?” he asked, giving them another shuffle and arching a thick brow. 

“I did, I promise. Did you do the trick wrong?” 

Setting the deck down in defeat, Sherlock nodded. “I must have. Unless!” He snapped his fingers, producing the Two of Hearts from where it had been hidden in the cuff of his sleeve, the move fast enough that it seemingly appeared from nowhere. “Is  _ this  _ your card?” 

Pale blue eyes went wide and Rosie shrieked with amazement, putting her hands to her mouth. “Yes! That’s it!” She reached out, beckoning with her fingers so she could examine the card and check it for strings or magnets. 

“And that’s why Sherlock has been banned from every Grosvenor casino in the country,” John snorted. He had been sitting in his chair watching the pair play since breakfast. 

Sherlock leaned against John’s knees and tipped his head back so he could look up at him with a serenely innocent expression. “That’s not true. I haven’t been run out of the one in Luton yet.” 

John leaned down to kiss the top of Sherlock’s head. “We’re not going to Luton just so you can cheat at poker.” 

They had been showing those subtle, gentle displays of affection to each other all morning to gauge Rosie’s response. It had seemed to surprise her at first when John had swept down with breakfast on a tray to plant a kiss on Sherlock’s cheek after hers, but she quickly got used to it, smiling happily when she noticed them holding hands or saw John comb his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. 

“I do not cheat at poker.” 

“Darling, you even cheat at Buckaroo.” 

Watching them play together, John had wished, not for the first time, that they had been smart enough to do this sooner. Sherlock had been acting as a parent since the day John had shown up at the flat with a baby Rosie on his chest and a bag at his feet, apologising for waiting so long before coming home. There was no hesitation, Sherlock had brought them in and taken Rosie while John had gone to scrub the taste of cheap vodka out of his mouth. Over the years he argued with Lestrade about murder suspects with a toddler on his hip and soggy Captain Crunch on his shirt. Interviewed potential clients while Rosie wove ribbons into his hair. Arranged visits to the zoo, had his face painted more times than John could count, did the shopping without complaint, ran background checks on teachers, and regularly fell asleep on the sofa with a happy little girl curled up on his chest and a matching smile on his own face. 

It wasn’t too soon, John decided. He planned on being around for a long time, watching his daughter grow and go to university and take the world by storm with whatever she chose to do with her life. But if something interfered, he wanted to know that she and Sherlock would be able to take care of each other without the stress of fighting lawyers and social workers. 

Touching the wooden tea tray with his fingertip, John cleared his throat. “Rosebud, can Sherlock and I talk to you about something pretty important?” 

Sherlock looked up at John in surprise. “Are you sure?” he asked quietly. 

“Positive.” 

Rosie hesitated. The last time her father had wanted to discuss ‘something pretty important’, she had learned that some animals got their reproductive organs removed to prevent health issues and that Porridge would never have babies. It had been a doubly stressful conversation, finding out that her rabbit would have to undergo surgery, and that she wouldn’t be there to comfort her. But both men were smiling, and Porridge was safely sunning her belly beside the coffee table. “Yes, you can,” she agreed. 

“You know that we both love you with all our hearts.” 

She nodded. This was certainly not how the last conversation had gone, so she began to relax. 

“We wanted to ask how you might feel, if you didn’t just have me as a dad. If Sherlock was a dad, too.” 

“Sherlock’s going to have a baby?” she asked, her brows knitting in confusion. She hadn’t paid much attention during the explanation of how babies were made, but she did recall that it took more than one person- or in the case of that conversation, rabbit- and that her uncle didn’t have the right parts. Sherlock spent a lot of time in his makeshift lab downstairs, maybe he’d learned how to make a test tube baby? Before those thoughts ran away with her, she noticed that Sherlock was trying to hide a laugh behind his fingers. “You’re not?” 

“No, Watson. It would ruin my figure.” John nudged him in the shoulder with his knee, and Sherlock flapped his hand at him. “Your father and I want to know if you would be happy if I adopted you. If you became my daughter as well.” 

With her brows still furrowed, Rosie looked from one man to the other. “Is Daddy going away?” she asked tentatively. 

“I’m staying right here. We both are. But, okay, you’ve met your friend Lucy’s daddy, right?” 

“Mr Monroe carried in the cupcakes yesterday, yeah.” He was a tense, awkward man who didn’t enjoy the large groups of people and had only spent a bit of time there before escaping outside for fresh air. 

“Well, he’s Lucy’s stepfather. That means he married her mummy after her biological father passed away when she was a little. But he loves them both so much that he wanted to be her new daddy. So they signed papers for him to adopt her, to make it official.” While the children were in recovery, John and Grant had discussed the process behind it all. 

“But he’s married to Lucy’s mummy,” Rosie pointed out. 

Sherlock looked to John for permission, receiving it with a nod. “That’s the other thing we wished to discuss with you. Watson, your daddy and I have decided that we are most happy together. As a couple, instead of as strictly friends. Do you understand what that means?” 

Rosie’s eyes went wide, as if Sherlock had just presented her with a dozen magically conjured playing cards. “You’re gonna get married?” 

“Not… Not…” Sherlock floundered and he stammered like a stuck record player that needed a thump. 

“Not yet,” John picked up for him, rubbing his shoulders. “It’s still very new, and we have to learn how we work together in a relationship like this. We do know that it is a forever thing, though. And that we want you and Sherlock to have a forever thing, too. We want you to be his daughter.” 

“Not… Not…” Sherlock was still caught, made worse by John adding the qualifier  _ yet. _ Not yet. As in eventually. Someday. Not today, but maybe tomorrow, next week, next year. It didn’t matter that it was the logical progression of things, and most definitely where things would have ended up after discussing the permanency of adoption, hearing the words had drowned out all logical thought and left him trying to remember the number for the florist he had used for John’s first wedding. 

“Did we break him?” Rosie leaned forward as far as her injuries would allow and jabbed him in the stomach. 

He would go with a different caterer; the beef had been tough. And a different photographer, definitely. 

“He breaks easily, Princess.” 

“I know.” Scowling at how clumsy her bandaged leg made her, Rosie grabbed Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms and used them to pull herself forward and onto his lap. She put her tiny hands to his cheeks and pressed until his lips puckered out like one of her tub toys. “Wake up!” 

Sherlock blinked back to the present and blushed. “Neither of you had better use that to your advantage.” After learning that when Sherlock was deep in thought, he was entirely disconnected from his body, Rosie had made a game out of seeing how many stickers she could get on his face before he came back around. Her record was forty-eight, and he had interrogated a suspect with an entire jungle scene on his cheeks. 

“No promises,” John said, his eyes dancing with amusement. “Well, what do you think Rosie? Is it a good idea?” 

The girl put her hands together below her bottom lip, tapping the underside of her chin with her thumbs as she thought it over. “It’s… A great idea. But…” She chewed on her lip. “For Father’s Day, Sherlock helps me make breakfast and decorate a card. With two daddies, I’m gonna need even more help.” 

“Oh, well!” Tossing his hands up, John sank back in his chair. “She’s right. Father’s Day will be a right old palaver. Good thing we found out now, so we can change our minds.” 

“No!” Rosie glared at John, knowing he was teasing her but still just slightly nervous that he might be serious. “I can manage. I’ll be even bigger next year, so I can probably make the pancakes on my own. And I can pour juice by myself now. It’ll be okay. We don’t have to change our minds.” 

“Are you sure? I can call a lawyer?” 

“I’m sure. My mind’s made up. Two daddies. Two cards. I can do it.” She still had a fierce glare, daring her father to try to question her as she clutched at Sherlock. “Call a lawyer. Then get married. I’ll be a flower girl and Nana will buy a new hat. Good.” 

“We can hardly argue with that, John.” 

  
  
  


The cast and crew, after a tedious game of email tag, had agreed to return to the theatre in two weeks to discuss the future of the production to give the injured cast members time to recover physically and emotionally. Acting camp had been rescheduled and took place in a nearby park instead of in the theatre. Rosie went to the classes but performed from a chair or directed until she was steady on her feet. She was tentative around stairs for a few days, but just as John had expected, it wasn’t long before she was tearing up and down them like normal the day after she had her stitches removed. The promised sleepover took place in Norbury, with another at Baker Street soon after. 

As much as things changed- John moved his clothes into Sherlock’s wardrobe. They kept his old room furnished for guests and frightened clients, and his footlocker stayed where it was because neither man was interested in getting a hernia dragging it down the stairs. Their first domestic argument was over the acceptable use of the other’s toothbrush (“It’s not my fault you ate blue cheese dressing, John. Use your own brush. And no it  _ doesn’t _ matter where your tongue has been; a toothbrush is for cleaning, not recreation.”) which had been easily smoothed over with a well timed offer of a foot rub. John learned that Sherlock grew increasingly affectionate the more at ease he became, while Sherlock learned that John was the sort of romantic partner who forgot his own birthday but remembered the only bakery in the city that made a certain kind of pastry that Sherlock had once mentioned enjoying the taste of- They also stayed the same. John still played the assistant when it was needed, and Sherlock was still rude and demanding. John was used to it, and knew that if Sherlock had changed for him he wouldn’t be the man he fell in love with. So he never complained more loudly than a sigh when Sherlock simply pointed at things, smirked at suggestions, or expected him to snap to at a command. 

The only change John wished Sherlock would make was one he knew would never happen. He wanted him to share information about cases more freely instead of holding it close to the vest. John knew it was because his detective didn’t want to risk the possibility of his discoveries and deductions being proved wrong and himself exposed as an idiot, but it drove him mad trying to guess what new fact might be making him dance about with joy or snarl at his computer in disgust. 

In the run up to the theatre meeting, Sherlock had spent all of his free time in research. He used John’s earlier investigation into Gloria’s run-ins with her former cast and crew as a springboard and followed every lead he found. Several times over those two weeks his phone would ring with a new message and he would dash off into the city for a meeting. Some of those meetings ended with him returning looking grim and frustrated, others giving him a manic sort of glee that told John he was going in the right direction. 

Sherlock took to fiddling with something in his pocket while he was thinking, and when John finally asked what it was, he hesitated before producing a bent screw. He showed him the deep gouge in the side and the cracked threads down its length. “From the sabotage,” he murmured, turning the screw over in his fingers. “To remind me to keep my focus and not lose sight again.” When he rolled it between finger and thumb, it left parallel lines on his skin. 

The morning of the meeting, Sherlock and Rosie awoke early. They left John to sleep in and relax while they went to have breakfast together at a nearby cafe. 

“After today, the play might not happen,” Sherlock told her over a shared plate of blueberry waffles. 

“Daddy said that yesterday. Because a lot of the actors might not feel safe.” She drummed her heels against the bench on her side of the booth and sipped her chocolate milk. 

“Do you feel safe coming with us today?” 

Blowing bubbles in the milk, Rosie put serious thought into her answer. 

Sherlock had made it clear that he didn’t expect her to start calling him anything she wasn’t comfortable with yet, but he  _ felt  _ like a parent. Different from her Daddy, but just as loving and devoted and caring. And protective. No matter what had happened, she trusted Sherlock to protect her if her Daddy wasn’t able to reach her in time. She remembered the panic and fear in his voice as he had screamed her first name while trying to tear apart the set piece to reach her. He had been the first to get to her. 

“I don’t…” Her words were measured and careful. “I don’t know if I’ll feel safe if they have the stairs up again. I don’t want to dance on them yet. But I feel safe going. We’re just going to be talking, right?” 

“That’s the idea, yes. We’re going to be discussing the future, and I think I will be able to get the person who hurt you all to admit what they did.” 

Rosie’s feet stilled with a final thump and she stared into her glass. “They’re gonna be there?” she asked softly. 

Sherlock reached over to cup her cheek, and smiled. “They are. That’s what we want. To make sure they don’t get away with what happened. If they don’t show up, that means I’ll have to go track them down. And you know I’d much rather be spending my time with you and Daddy than running after a saboteur.” 

“If I was bigger I could help chase them,” she said, trying to brighten. It worked enough to get her to return to her meal, but she couldn’t help but feel nervous about confronting whoever had put her and her friends in so much pain. 

“When I’m as creaky and slow as Daddy, I’m sure you will be ready to start helping.” Sherlock took up his fork again to spear a strawberry. “But don’t tell him I said that.” 

Rosie mimed zipping her lips, then unzipped them so she could eat another mouthful. 

“That’s my girl.” 

  
  


“Thank you all for coming. I want to tell you how pleased I am that so many of you chose to return to discuss the possible future of this production.” 

Anton Greene stood in the centre of a ring of chairs. He had already briefed the crew who were now sitting along the back of the stage, and his attention was on the actors facing him with a mix of concern and anticipation. The circle was bigger than it had been for script reads, as the director insisted on parents sitting with their children for support and to take part in the discussion. 

When the young cast members had climbed the steps onto the stage in a group, it had been to a standing ovation of applause and cheers. The youngest, the ones who had taken the worst damage, showed off their scars and talked about the treatment they had received in hospital. The mood was tense but they each tried to keep from showing it. 

“I think we should start by going around, and opening up about how we’re all feeling.” Anton took his seat and pulled out a spiral notebook and pen. “It’s a good way to make sure nothing is festering away. After a trauma, it’s important to address what caused it.” The way he spoke sounded like he was repeating something he had memorised, and Sherlock suspected their director had spent his time away attending group therapy sessions. 

“I was just so scared when I saw what could have happened to me!” Gloria gasped into an embroidered handkerchief. “If it had been me up on that st-” 

“Actually,” Anton broke in bluntly, making a mark on his note paper. “I wanted to start with the children. The ones who were affected by this incident.” 

Gloria’s mouth snapped shut with an audible click, and her brows jumped up toward her hairline. It had been so long since a director had cut her off, she didn’t know how to respond. Before she could try to figure it out, Anton continued. 

“Rosamund, you got beat up pretty badly, didn’t you? Do you want to tell us about how you felt?” 

Rosie looked from John to Sherlock for encouragement. They nodded and urged her to speak her mind. “It was scary. I thought… When it fell down, I thought that maybe I’d done something wrong.” She twisted her fingers into the hem of her shirt, frustrated to find that tears were pricking at her eyes. “Like I’d done my dance wrong, and it made the stairs break.” 

“Oh, sweetness, that’s definitely not the case. You were all doing superb work.” 

“That’s what Daddy said. That we were doing it right. But he also said that when something scary happens, the brain, it-” She let go of her shirt so she could twiddle the fingers of one hand next to her temple. “It doesn’t always understand the real world. It shows stuff that didn’t happen, or changes what did. So now when I ‘member us dancing up here, I always see it like I was stomping around or being clumsy, and making it fall down.” She sucked in a shaky breath and leaned into John, seeking support and comfort. “Like it was my fault, and everyone got hurt worse than they did.” 

Lucy nodded and reached across Sherlock’s chest to squeeze Rosie’s hand. She was on her mother’s lap, wearing one of her biological father’s old shirts like a dress and had a medical brace around her injured ankle. “I keep thinking that sometimes, too,” she told the group. “We were all having fun and doing great, and it felt awesome, and then…” She trailed off and gestured up the stage where the set had been. “Then crash. I don’t really remember the falling down bit, but I remember Mr Williams pulling me an’ Rosie out, and Mummy crying. She cried a lot.” Effie pressed a kiss to the top of Lucy’s head and rocked her. 

Anton scribbled notes as the girls discussed their experience, nodding from time to time. “I must say, you were both far braver than I was. I cried a great deal, too. And I yelled at people.”

Rosie muffled a giggle. She remembered that, their director pacing and shouting on the phone while his husband chased after him to try to get him to sit or at the very least stay in one spot and to please just think of his blood pressure. It was a blurry memory, clouded by fear and pain and drowned out by the sound of ambulance sirens and the feeling of Sherlock holding her so gently as if he was afraid she would shatter when all she wanted was for him to tighten his grip to show her that it would be all right. 

Anton turned to Clark who gave much the same description. His stitches had been taken out of his scalp, leaving a neat little scar just where his hair began. He tried to sound brave, as if it hadn’t gotten to him, but he looked up at the expression his mother wore, and his face crumpled. “It coulda been really bad,” he whispered, his lip wobbling. “My head was really hurt. I was dizzy for days, and the headache was awful. The doctor says my skull probably bounced on the floor. And the stitches itched so bad, I hated it.” 

He rolled his eyes when his mother hugged him tightly, but soon sank into it. “I wasn’t sure about bringing him back today,” she admitted, leaving peachy, glossy kiss marks on his cheeks. “This is only the second time he’d been cast in a play, and after this happened, I wanted it to be the last. But my little man insisted. He loves performing, and it breaks my heart to see these kids so frightened over this. I hope whoever is responsible for the set is being dealt with.” 

“We’ll address that soon, Mrs Lambert. I promise. I would just like to stick to a structure here, to make sure everyone gets a chance to speak before we turn to the more stressful details.” 

She sighed but nodded her agreement. She wasn’t an unreasonable woman most of the time. She never raised a fuss if her coffee order was incorrect, she smiled and waved when someone took a bit too long with a parallel parking job while she was running late, and she stepped in if a middle-class housewife was throwing a fit in a boutique and berating the sales clerk. But the moment her son had been released from the hospital, still dizzy and nauseous, with a deep purple bruise over his forehead, she had turned into a mother bear protecting her cub. Doctors’ qualifications were questioned, every prescription was researched and double checked, and Clark’s paediatrician had learned to quake at the sound of rubber clogs on the floor outside his office door. 

The older children were more successful at pretending they weren’t bothered by the incident. They shrugged and dismissed the concerns, trying to sound more bored than anything. 

Anna had seen most of the cast and crew at one point or another during the two weeks they were on hiatus. She still taught the acting classes for youngsters and when Rosie had arrived for her first lesson the pair had hugged and compared their healing wounds to the shock and awe of the students who had no idea what had happened. She passed on her opportunity to speak, her concerns already voiced to their director in private.

“I was really freaked out after the accident,” Stephanie said when Anton opened the floor for her. “I mean, after I got home from hospital and I didn’t know what was going to happen next.” She gestured to her knee. It had a black support brace strapped around it. “Scott and John got me in touch with a great physiotherapist who was able to pencil me right in, which was a miracle. She thinks it’ll be back to one hundred percent before too long. It still scared the hell out of me that first night when I couldn’t straighten my leg. I’m a dancer. This is all I know how to do. And this play is my big break.” Swiping her hand under her eyes, she looked around the circle. “I think it is for a lot of us. Someone tried to take that away from us, and it just makes me so damned mad. It’s like, if I’d landed just a little differently, my career would be over before it even started. I’d never be able to dance again. Sure, I can sing, but I don’t want to be stuck in the chorus the rest of my life. We know we always take the chance of failed auditions, not getting parts. That’s to be expected and it’s part of the territory. None of us could have expected this to happen. I don’t know how we could.” Stephanie huffed out a rough breath and flapped her hand. “And just the fact that we could be calling it curtains before we even start makes it feel all the worse. Like the dickhead who’s trying to scare one of us-” she nodded to Gloria who had been getting increasingly irritated that she was expected to wait for the rest of the cast to talk before she could get a chance to put in her thoughts. “He’s screwed us all over. Hurt a lot of us. Could have killed some of us. But he doesn’t give a damn. So. Yeah. I’m just angry, I think. Angry, and worried about what’s going to happen next for all of us.” 

Their Mother Abbess crooned gently and rubbed Stephanie’s shoulder, offering her the tin of Quality Street that she had been passing out for the last half hour. “Thanks, Mama,” Stephanie smiled, selecting a Purple One. 

The matronly actress, Henrietta Meyer, urged her to take another then addressed the group. “I can certainly see why Steph is feeling this way. It feels like we are being held hostage by someone’s temper toward a person who most of us barely know- And I’m sorry, Miss Sunchild, but- a person who can easily return to the glitz and glamour of the television film set without batting an eye.” 

An already stretched thin thread of patience snapped in Gloria and she thumped her fists on her thighs. “Are you implying this was my fault? Maybe you’re forgetting that I was supposed to be on that set that day.” 

“Yet, you weren’t. You came out of it unscathed, and all of our young cast mates were seriously hurt. Whether or not this was your fault doesn’t take away from the fact that you are being a spoiled brat about this.” Henrietta calmly unwrapped a Strawberry Delight and put it in her mouth to savour. She seemed to get as much enjoyment out of making their star wait for her to continue as she did out of the sweet. “I’ve seen you on your twitter page, sobbing and wailing over production being stalled, about how you didn’t feel safe with us, convinced one of us is plotting your demise. Not once did you ever express any concern about your costars. Not just about the future of the show, but about their well being. Good lord, girl, look at these kids.” She pointed at the children, bruised, bandaged, scarred, and still fighting back tears. “Your head is shoved so far up- My apologies, darlings. You might want to cover your ears- up your own arse that you genuinely think that you were the one to be affected by that day. You could make a darned funeral about you, but thank goodness that we didn’t have to find that out.” 

Gloria was almost vibrating with rage, her cheeks burning red under her concealer. She stabbed a finger at her assistant. “Murphy!” she snapped. “Get… Get me a water. Or a tea. Something. I don’t care.” Able to assert her dominance over  _ someone, _ she relaxed slightly and folded her handkerchief in neat squares on her lap until she was able to rein in her temper. “Of course I care about what happened to the little munchkins. I was just so shaken up about the fact that my stalker would lash out at other people in an effort to reach me.” She blinked rapidly and dabbed at dry eyes. “The thought that I could have been the reason these boys and girls are so frightened is heartbreaking. But I’ve done my best to make sure that they are safe. You’ve all seen how often I’ve brought it up to Anthony about the safety and security here. I’ve asked for a personal guard, and was rejected. Can you imagine? Someone has been sending me threats, and I was denied protection.” Gloria cast an accusing glare at Anton. 

Murphy returned with a steaming cup of lemon tea which she sipped daintily. “Thank you, pet. Now. I think it is time to address the elephant in the room here, don’t you all?” She set the cup aside on the floor and crossed her legs. Her dog clambered out of her bag to sniff then lap at the tea. “If I’d been allowed to speak sooner, we could have avoided dredging up all these awful memories. You are all concerned about the future of this play, and I understand that. So I think it best to tell you now, that because my safety hasn’t been ensured, I will be pulling out my entire involvement, as of today.” 

The reaction was immediate. Most of the adults snapped in anger and disgust. They hadn’t enjoyed working with her, but as their backer, with Gloria pulling out, the production would fall apart. It could take weeks or months to find funding. Time that they couldn’t spend kicking their heels and waiting for a call about next steps. Stephanie put her face in her hands and cried quietly. Laura had to be held in her seat. It was unclear what she wanted to do, but the tight grip she had on her thermos gave a hint. 

“Please, everyone,” Anton stood and raised his hands. The children, used to school assemblies each put a finger to their lips and raised a hand as well until silence fell. “Thank you.” He turned to their lead actress and rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. “Gloria, you have a contract. And we can work this out. We’ve been in contact with the police about the set sabotage, and someone has come in to examine everything. They’ve begun an investigation.” 

Gloria sneered and flicked the handkerchief. “Which I’m sure will go nowhere, and waste time. Besides, I have begun an investigation myself. I hired a private investigator. He’s here now, and he’ll tell you that I’m not safe!” 

Groaning, Sherlock rubbed the bridge of his nose. This wasn’t how he had planned on this going. It would have been easier and safer for everyone involved if he could have taken one or two people aside and spoken directly to them, but now it seemed he had to address the entire group. Standing, he lifted his hand in greeting. “Erm, yes. She means me.” 

“Excuse me?” snapped an actor. “You’re a spy, Scott?” 

“Not exactly. Or rather, yes, exactly. Allow me to explain.” 

Sherlock gestured for Anton to sit back down and took his place in the centre of the circle of chairs. Rosie, who knew that when he started explaining his deductions he could go on all day, slid out of her seat onto the floor to crawl away and play cards with her stage siblings who were growing equally as bored. While she tried to show them the trick her new father had taught her, Sherlock turned in spot a few times to decide the best way to begin. 

“Gloria hired me several weeks ago, to look into a series of threats she had received. Since most of those threats were taking place here at the theatre, I thought it best to insinuate myself into the production to keep an eye on things while I conducted my investigation.” 

“Are you police?” the same actor asked. 

“Ah. No. Definitely not police. I’m-” he coughed into his fist and spoke quickly. “SherlockHolmesConsultingDetective.” 

Some eyes narrowed in suspicion or disbelief, while others lit up as two and two were put together. 

“My partner, John Watson, has been working closely with me on this as well.” He gestured to John who gave a sheepish wave. “Since this case has been mostly monitoring things, it seemed the natural choice to audition for a place in the play. I wasn’t expecting it to be as difficult as it has been. There is a certain drawback to investigating actors, and that is that you’ve all made careers out of subterfuge. You, in a sense, lie for a living.

“If it had been just a matter of threats or the occasional damaged jacket, that wouldn’t have caused a problem. There had been no rush to bring matters to a close, as my client seemed content with being cast as our Maria. But what I’m not sure if all of you know, and what I myself didn’t learn until speaking with an actress here, is that Miss Sunchild is this play’s backer. She was so keen to have her name linked with a stage production that she offered to bankroll this entire project.” Sherlock strolled casually around the stage, occasionally addressing someone directly if it seemed they weren’t understanding what he was saying. “Of course, no producer would turn down an offer like that. So production went forward with Gloria as the lead.” 

“Exactly!” Gloria snapped. “Then the next day, I started to get threats. Messages on my phone, and then someone trashed my dressing room.” 

“Messages which Gloria was kind enough to share with me. If I may?” He produced his phone from his pocket and played a recording. 

_ “You’re gonna die, Glory. Gonna die on that stage.” _

The voice was rough and hoarse from being pitched so low and sinister. 

“What do we notice about this recording?” When no answer came, Sherlock raised the volume and played it again. Behind the voice was the faintest sound of hammering, while closer there was a frantic scratching. Each of the recordings he played after had the same background noises. 

“The carpenters!” Gloria shouted, jumping to her feet and pointing furiously at the design crew who sat nearby. 

“Yes, we can hear the carpenters on the recording, but they weren’t involved. I tested this theory when I arrived this morning, with the help of some of the crew. Listen.” 

He played another recording. It was Sherlock’s voice, and in the distance was a rhythmic knock of hammers on wood and a faint scratch of nails.  _ “Theatre location test three. Theatre location test three. Over.” _

“What does that tell us?” He whirled in a circle and pointed at Stephanie. “Any ideas?” 

“That you know where that recording was made?” she suggested. 

Grinning, Sherlock touched the end of his nose with one finger, pointing at Stephanie again with the other. "And the prize goes to! We conducted the experiment in several different locations throughout the building to try to match the sounds we heard on this recording. To get the same echo from the hammers, there was only one place it could possibly have been made. Gloria’s dressing room.” 

“You mean…” Gloria covered her mouth with a weak sob. “They made it when they were destroying my belongings?” 

Sherlock’s nose twitched. “Not exactly. There is something else in the background, other than the noise of hammering.” He scraped his nails over his jeans to mimic the scratch. “In my recording, it was fingernails against the door. In yours-” He whistled and Alphonso perked up to trot over. The dog put his paws on Sherlock’s legs, scratching at him for attention. “Now, it’s entirely possible that someone briefly kidnapped your dog and held him hostage while damaging your dressing room. Unlikely of course, but possible. Just as it’s possible that they made all of the recordings in one go, in order to send them out over the course of several days without having to worry about being caught making a new one each time. However, your dressing room was being monitored. Anton and the rest of the crew really did take your safety concerns seriously. After the space was vandalised the first time, he had a security camera installed. When I went in to examine the room, I noticed that there was a tear in the wall from a cable being yanked down.” 

“The stalker wouldn’t have wanted to be caught. Of course they pulled it down.” The actress was taking slow steps away from Sherlock now. 

“That does make sense, yes. But what doesn’t, is stowing the cables in your makeup table drawer along with the batteries for your smoke detector. A mysterious attacker wouldn’t care if you were caught smoking in your dressing room, and they wouldn’t bundle cables away neatly for later. And there’s no reason you would pull them down, if you wanted them to catch sight of whoever had plans for destroying your clothing.” 

“So who cares about the damned cables?” Gloria snapped. 

“There would be a reason though, if you didn’t want the camera to record you smashing your own mirrors with your chair, or taking a pair of scissors to your coat” As far as dramatic reveals went, it certainly got the biggest reaction from his audience. 

After the din died down, Gloria scoffed. “You have got to be kidding.” 

“On its own, I admit it’s not concrete evidence. But there was something else. Something I almost missed. It wasn’t until I heard the letter that was sent to you that I realised I’d heard something before. Glory. You call yourself Glory.” 

“And so what? Everyone has a nickname,  _ Scotty.” _

Sherlock played the recording again, and he could see realisation dawning on a few of the faces in the circle around him.  _ “Gonna die, Glory.” _

She sliced her hand through the air to try to silence the cast who were shifting in their seats and murmuring softly as they confirmed with one another that none of them had ever used that name for her. “This is just stupid,” she laughed, shaking her head. “If I was making this up, why in the hell would I hire you?” 

John leaned forward in his chair, his hands clasped loosely between his knees. He had been following Sherlock from the moment he began to speak, making some deductions of his own as he went. “So when you backed out of the play, you could insist that you had done everything possible to find out who was harassing you. And if it came down to an insurance claim from an injury, a fall off a set, maybe? You could tell them ‘Look, I hired Sherlock bloody Holmes to look into this’ without being caught in a lie.” 

Sherlock bounced in place and pointed at John. “Brilliance, John!”

“Not brilliance! It’s just rubbish.” She stomped her foot on the floor and looked imploringly at her fellow actors. “Why would I do any of this? What’s there to gain?” 

“Nothing at all. But if you didn’t do this, you had so much to lose. Between the various lawsuits against you, from assaults or broken contracts, there was no way you had the funds to back this production. It would have bankrupted you. And I’ve done some digging. Your soap opera is on its last legs. Ratings are plummeting, and even if it picks up for another year, it’s unlikely they would renew your contract for it.” Sherlock tilted his head to the side. “You knew that, didn’t you? Or suspected. That’s what this theatre jaunt was about for you. To show the producers of the programme that you had draw. Because everyone would come to see a performance of Sound of Music in the West End, even if the lead was a mediocre soap actress.” 

Gloria screeched with her mouth tightly shut and John slid to the edge of the chair, ready to pull Sherlock to safety if she decided to come out swinging. 

“You were so desperate, you offered the backing. Then what happened? Did your assistant remind you that you couldn’t afford it? Or did you never intend on things progressing past rehearsals? When opening night drew closer, you became more anxious. Threats weren’t going to be enough to justify leaving anymore. You had to make certain that no one would question your decision. And oh, just  _ think  _ of all the interviews that you could do. The daytime chat shows, weeping into your dog about how you just barely survived a catastrophe on stage, and it scared you away from the theatre forever. Even better if you could trot out the young actors who were injured right alongside you.” There was a venom in Sherlock’s voice that John hadn’t heard in years. 

The detective took the mangled screw from his pocket and held it up. “This mistake was quite a bit bigger than your other ones. Getting your assistant to sabotage the set, it was too far. And what’s worst, is that you knew how dangerous it was. You knew that there was a very good chance that someone was going to get killed that afternoon, but you were going to make damned sure it wasn’t going to be you. You changed your mind, and came in late. Anna had taken on your role. Just an understudy, that was fine for you, wasn’t it? Understudies, and a bunch of kids.” 

All of the shouting had gotten the children’s attention and they had gradually inched back into the circle to listen to the explanation about what had happened to them. 

“You don’t understand!” Gloria covered her face and backed away, snivelling. Turning slowly, she wiped her eyes. With a viper fast strike, she grabbed Rosie by a braid and hauled her up against her stomach. “You just need to understand.” She wrapped an arm around Rosie’s waist and picked her up, stepping back until she reached her assistant for protection. 

Rosie screamed and twisted, unable to wriggle free. With panicked eyes, she looked to her parents. Before she could cry out, a hand clamped over her mouth. 

“Shut up, you little brat. I’m not going to hurt you. I just need them to listen to me.” Gloria tightened her hold across her ribs, making her eyes water. “There, see? You’re fine. She’s fine. So you’re gonna just…” She pointed the girl at Sherlock. “You’re going to forget that you were ever hired, and it’ll be okay. We’re going to tell the press what  _ really  _ has been going on here, aren’t we? There was a stalker following me around, and making threats. Some kids got hurt, and I’m very sorry about that. But it wasn’t my fault.” 

John was out of his chair at Sherlock’s side. He held his hands up when Gloria’s fingernails bit into Rosie’s cheek as he took a step forward. “Please, just put her down. She’s already hurt. Don’t make this worse for yourself.”

“I said it wasn’t my fault!” 

Something touched John’s fingers. He looked down at what Sherlock had slipped into his hand. A twist of paper around what felt like a marble. He transferred it to his left hand and gave a nearly imperceptible nod. “Okay, Gloria. It wasn’t your fault. Accidents happen. We do understand that.” John took a step to the side, rather than forward, and Gloria moved in the opposite direction. By moving slowly and patiently, he was able to corral her away from the front of the stage. The crew were behind her, and the actors had moved out of the way to give them all space. Murphy stayed at her shoulder. “We know you didn’t mean to hurt the kids. Either of you. Isn’t that right, Murphy?” 

The man looked exhausted. “Come on, Sunny. This has gone way too far. We can still salvage your career.” 

“You know I won’t have a career after this. I won’t have anything after this. God, you’re such a moron. And a fucking coward. I never should have left the work to you.” Even while she was berating him, she was leaning into his chest for support. 

“But you did,” John said, adjusting his grip on the small item he held. “And now it’s time to stop any more mistakes from happening. Time to read the symbols. Or time to rabbit.” 

Rosie’s brows went up as those words were spoken directly to her. Symbols. What did symbols mean? Signals! she realised. She knew what to do when someone grabbed her and she needed to get away. Turning her head sharply to the side to get her mouth free, she buried her teeth into the side of Gloria’s hand. She swung her good leg forward and like a furious rabbit, drove her foot back as hard as she could into the woman’s kneecap. 

John threw the object at the floor and it exploded in a bright flash, a loud bang, and a puff of smoke. 

Gloria shrieked in pain and surprise and dropped Rosie to the floor. The girl darted forward and lunged into her father’s arms. Sherlock passed her to grab the actress. As he was subduing her, he was elbowed in the ribs, headbutted in the nose, and narrowly avoided getting his eye clawed out. His face remained impassive through it all. 

A grunt and a thud of flesh on wood marked Murphy being kneed in the solar plexus by Anton then falling to the floor where he was pinned down by three actresses. 

“I was a rabbit!” Rosie yelled in John’s face. “I was a rabbit and I got away! I knew what you were saying!” 

“Of course you did, Princess. You’re one of my geniuses.” John gathered her close, rocking forward and back with her in his arms and his face buried against her hair. “You’re okay. My little genius. You’re safe.” 

“My ears hurt!” 

“I know, Rosie. That was a flash bang.”

“Papa has a bloody nose!”

“I’ll take care of that when I’m done hugging you.” 

“I can’t hear what you’re saying!” 


	13. Curtain Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The curtain falls.

The cast returned to the stage as the audience rose to their feet with applause. 

John was in the fourth row, far enough away he didn’t need to crane his neck, close enough that he could see the sheen of sweat on Sherlock’s forehead as he made his bow. Mrs Hudson leaned over to croon at how handsome he looked with his hair swept back and decked out in a military uniform.

On his other side, Mycroft had ripened around Confidence In Me, and begun to decompose before the intermission. By the time the final rendition of Climb Ev’ry Mountain was sung, he had sunk so deep in his seat that he looked about ready to dribble off. Each time he would groan in despair, his mother would smile brightly, and jam her elbow into his ribs. 

On the stage, Sherlock picked Rosie up and balanced her on his hip for another bow. The little girl waved at the cheering audience. She saw John in the crowd and beamed with pride. 

After Gloria’s arrest, Sherlock couldn’t allow the play to fall apart. He had made friends, rediscovered a long lost passion, and knew he couldn’t disappoint his daughter. It had meant subjecting himself to the public eye as Sherlock Holmes, rather than a nameless actor, but it had been worth it. All of the interest in him, and John, and their cases had come roaring back to life the day he had made the announcement of his role in the production. He suffered through backers parties, with only a slightly pained expression on his face while singing for them and listening to them fawn. He made press appearances with John, and learned that when it was turned into a party trick, people actually enjoyed his deductions. 

He had been getting better at keeping them tasteful. No one needed to know if a television entertainment correspondent was sleeping with her makeup girl or which Hollywood actor had herpes. 

People were eager to support the show. With Sherlock’s name on the marquee, they were booked for a full month run to finish up the summer. As their popularity boomed once more, they were booked onto celebrity panel shows to discuss past cases, the future in theatre, and play pub quiz games. It was a different sort of fame than what they’d experienced before. People wanted to know about them, rather than just their cases. 

He continued to take cases. That morning he had closed two in short succession while getting his tuxedo jacket adjusted for a final time. 

John had been right. He could be both. John was always right. 

Down in the audience, John put his fingers to his lips to blow a long, sharp whistle when Rosie took her solo bow. 

On his finger, a slim silver band glinted in the stage lights.  _ Not yet _ had become  _ soon  _ very naturally after Sherlock had made an appointment with a family lawyer to begin the adoption process. Dates weren’t set, but he had a feeling they would have to be made to fit around the summer theatre season. 

His family would be busy reading scripts. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well! That was a hell of a ride for me. This is the longest thing I've ever written, and I won't lie, I think it might also be my favourite thing I've written. I love how it came together.  
> This was originally going to be a 10K story for someone. But then things just... Spiralled. Rosie became so central to not just the plot, but the characters. I haven't written BBC Johnlock in years, and this story made me remember why I fell in love with them in the first place.  
> Once again, I want to thank Christy and Bel. My cheerleaders, my supporters, my editors, and my best friends. I love them so much, and this one is definitely for them.  
> I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. See you on the next one!


End file.
